Must I have him with me another day,

With that awful change in his face?”

Anne Reeve Aldrich

WHEN PLAINTIVELY AND NEAR THE CRICKET SINGS

Now evening comes. Now stirs my discontent....

Oh, ache of smallest, unforgotten things!

How sharp you are when day and dark are blent,

When beetles hurry by with vibrant wings,

And plaintively and near the cricket sings.

The sighing garden calls me from the door;