Silent art thou?--thanks to thee,
O little cricket
Underneath my chair;
Thanks to thee--yet would I see
Thy shadow less--out to yon thicket!
There let thy dull repining
Drive where the winds are driven,
Nor deign to bring
Thy sorrows back--let such be given
To those in shades reclining
Who love to sing,
With thee, of dear departed Summer,
And hear again her sad funereal drummer,
Thou little, mournful thing.