The elfins tune the fiddle,
The crickets ply the bow,
Their endless theme a riddle,
As dreamers all must know.
The somnolence, the weary drone;
Nostalgic is the call
To topple summer's regal throne
And don the tints of fall.
But what of winter's icy glare
And what of tasseled spring?
Are the crickets unaware
They're in the reckoning?
No comments:
Post a Comment