Silent art thou?—thanks to thee,
O little cricket
Underneath my chair;
Thanks to thee—yet would I see
Thy shadow less—out to yon thicket!
There let thy dull repining
Drive where the winds are driven,
Nor deign to bring
Thy sorrows back—let such be given
To those in shades reclining
Who love to sing,
With thee, of dear departed Summer,
And hear again her sad funereal drummer,
Thou little, mournful thing.
III.
One moment stay—why comest thou
With doleful ditty
Unbidden to my room;
Wee, dusky mourner, do not go,
But say—what is it claims thy pity,
And sets thee telling, telling
Such a solemn story
So to me,
As if there knelling, knelling
Of some departed glory
Dear to thee?
O sad musician, put aside thy fiddle,
And admit life is a riddle,
And Heaven holds the key.
IV.
Thou mindest not; for hark!—again
Resounds thy racket
Shriller than before;
Singst thou this sad strain
As if befitting to thy ebon jacket,
With carvings curious,
And a color glossy,
Like old wine—
Tiny thing, be not so furious
And uneedful noisy;
Cease to pine
For something fled—for joys or hopes departed,
Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted,
O mourner most divine.
[IN PRAISE OF INEZ.]
Would that my feeble pen might pluck
From the green fields of poetry,
Some flower, sweet girl, wherewith to deck
Thy name so near, so dear to me.
Would that my hand might gather here
From the sweet fields of tender thought,
Some blossom, fragrant as the rose,
Some lily, lovely as I ought.