My Cricket. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

   Farther in summer than the birds,
    Pathetic from the grass,
    A minor nation celebrates
    Its unobtrusive mass.

    No ordinance is seen,
    So gradual the grace,
    A pensive custom it becomes,
    Enlarging loneliness.

    Antiquest felt at noon
    When August, burning low,
    Calls forth this spectral canticle,
    Repose to typify.

    Remit as yet no grace,
    No furrow on the glow,
    Yet a druidic difference
    Enhances nature now.