To the Cricket

Flourishes in song immortal The Cicada famed of old; On the brows of Attic women Was its likeness worn in gold.

But my Cricket! none have praised thee, Insect full of dulcet mirth! Singing in the August moonlight, Minstrel of the country hearth!

Sharded rhapsodist of Autumn, When the year begins to wane, In the grass and in the hedges Trillest thou thy wiry strain.

Harp with clasps of ivory strengthened, Unto thee does not belong; Thine own body is a cithern, Its pulsations make thy song.

In the midnight weird and holy, When the moon is in eclipse, Feedest thou on leaves of moly— Honeydew-drops steep thy lips.