The Cricket

Where art thou, merry whistler of the hearth ?
What time the grate is stuff'd with arid moss,
I miss thy shrill monotony of mirth.
And do not love the bar's ferruginous gloss,
When summer nights are blinking-dark and cold.
And the dim taper cheerless to behold.
I thought thee sleeping in some cranny snug,
Insensible to human weal or woe,
Till earlier night bids shake the lazy rug.
And lifts the poker for decisive blow.
But thou hast left thy ashy winter mansion
To air thy crisp-cased wings in wide expansion.
If I should see thee in thy summer dress,
'Tis odds if I should know thee, winter friend !
The love I have not, but revere no less,
That can so closely to thy ways attend.
And glad am I the cricket has a share
Of the wide summer, and the ample air.