Foreboding
CRICKET, why wilt thou crush me with thy cry?
How can such light sound weigh so heavily!
Behold the grass is sere, the cold dews fall,
The world grows empty —yes, I know it all,
The knell of joy I hear.
Oh, long ago the swallows hence have flown,
And sadly sings the sea in undertone;
The wild vine crimsons o’er the rough gray stone;
The stars of winter rise, the cool winds moan;
Fast wanes the golden year.
O cricket, cease thy sorrowful refrain[.]
This summer’s glory comes not back again,
But others wait with flowers and sun and rain;
Why wakest thou this haunting sense of pain,
Of loss, regret, and fear?
Clear sounds thy note above the waves’ low sigh,
Clear through the breathing wind that wanders by,
Clear through the rustle of dry grasses tall;
Thou chantest, “Joy is dead!” I know it all,
The winter’s woe is near.
