XLIV
My Cricket
Farther in summer than the birds,Pathetic from the grass,A minor nation celebratesIts unobtrusive mass.
No ordinance is seen,So gradual the grace,A pensive custom it becomes,Enlarging loneliness.
Antiquest felt at noonWhen August, burning low,Calls forth this spectral canticle,Repose to typify.
Remit as yet no grace,No furrow on the glow,Yet a druidic differenceEnhances nature now.