The Cricket's Song Poem by Alexander Anderson

He will not sing his loudest song,
This poet full of love and mirth,
Until the shadows which belong
To night are deep upon the hearth.


And then he sings; the little room
Is full of his persistent glee;
I almost fancy that the gloom
Trembles, so loud of voice is he.


He fills the space around; his spell
Is over all in perfect bliss,
He pipes, and yet I could not tell
A single moment where he is.


And as I listen, far away,
I stray to dearer, earlier years,
When other hearts by night and day
Took kindly to his former peers.


They fed them, and when all the night
Drew down to make the shadows cling,
The room was full of their delight,
Such joy it was for them to sing.


Those hearts, alas! have done with time;
This latest singer of his race,
After long silence, comes to chime
This carol and to take their place.


And how he chirps! The little room
Is all too narrow for his mirth;
But let him sing to cheer the gloom,
This one true poet of the hearth.


I hear him; I am full of tears,
And cannot share his shrill delight;
Those hands that fed his early peers
Are lying on my own to-night.