CHAPTER SEVEN
When your songs for me shall be songs that are finished,
When voices shall have left me beyond my retrieving,
When the key shall be turned and my broad world diminished,
A dream of the cricket’s song shall save me from grieving.
The long locks of the willow-tree are sloped at one angle,
Are swung to one wind, and that wind can awaken
The crickets to their chanting and the fireflies to spangle
The long locks of the willow-trees, shimmering and shaken.