Thou cricket, that at dusk in the damp weeds,

all that, alack! my sickly garden breeds,

silverest the brown air with thy liquid note

now eve is sharp, I, hearkening, dream remote

the home my exiled heart hath somewhere known

far from these busy days that make me lone,

in twilit past, where the soon autumn damp

is gather’d black above the yellow lamp

that guides my feet towards the rustic roof

infrequent, on the forest edge, aloof,

as I return, nor fail to greet the way

(ah, when?) the witness of my childish play,

and feel that soon the silver-piled snow

will make the watches warm beside the glow

that just reveals, amid the enfolding gloom,

the smoky joists of the familiar room:

and while thy supper-song is shrilling thro’

that well-kept nook, my musing shall renew

its kindred of romance, the friendly throng

that haunts the winters when the nights are long.