David Skaats Foster (1852–1920)

OH! little cricket that the evening long

Dost tell thy story to the silent hours

While the dew falls upon the thirsty flowers!

What is the burden of thy ceaseless song?

A tale of love? or secrets that belong

To the dim solitudes of ruined towers,

Whose crumbling walls the ivy leaf embowers?

Or drolleries of Titania’s shadowy throng?

Thou art a friend, so ancient legends tell,

That with the power of mystic sorcery

Guardest the hearth where thou dost love to dwell,

And with thy quaint and pleasant company

The night’s deep loneliness thou dost dispel,

Thou merry chief of insect minstrelsy!