Didst thou not tease and fret me to and fro, <br />Sweet spirit of this summer-circled field, <br />With that quiet voice of thine that would not yield <br />Its meaning, though I mused and sought it so? <br />But now I am content to let it go, <br />To lie at length and watch the swallows pass, <br />As blithe and restful as this quiet grass, <br />Content only to listen and to know <br />That years shall turn, and summers yet shall shine, <br />And I shall lie beneath these swaying trees, <br />Still listening thus; haply at last to seize, <br />And render in some happier verse divine <br />That friendly, homely, haunting speech of thine, <br />That perfect utterance of content and ease.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-cricket/
