THE LEAF-CRICKET
I
SMALL twilight singer Of dew and mist: thou ghost-gray, gossamer winger Of dusk's dim glimmer, How chill thy note sounds; how thy wings of shimmer Vibrate, soft-sighing, Meseems, for Summer that is dead or dying. I stand and listen, And at thy song the garden-beds, that glisten With rose and lily, Seem touched with sadness; and the tuberose chilly, Breathing around its cold and colorless breath, Fills the pale evening with wan hints of death. II
I see thee quaintly Beneath the leaf; thy shell-shaped winglets faintly — (As thin as spangle Of cobwebbed rain) — held up at airy angle; I hear thy tinkle With faery notes the silvery stillness sprinkle;