Thou shrill-voiced cricket there
In yonder corner,
Thou remindest me
Of joys departed, and of fair
And fallen summer. O little mourner,
Cease thy pensive fluting,
Lest a flood of melancholy,
Sad as thine,
That to my heart is suiting,
Encompass me--it is unholy
Thus to pine
For fallen joys or days departed,
E'en though thou art so broken-hearted,
For moments are divine.