The twilight is the morning of his day. <br />While Sleep drops seaward from the fading shore, <br />With purpling sail and dip of silver oar, <br />He cheers the shadowed time with roundelay, <br />Until the dark east softens into gray. <br />Now as the noisy hours are coming—hark! <br />His song dies gently—it is growing dark— <br />His night, with its one star, is on the way! <br /> <br />Faintly the light breaks over the blowing oats— <br />Sleep, little brother, sleep: I am astir. <br />We worship Song, and servants are of her— <br />I in the bright hours, thou in shadow-time: <br />Lead thou the starlit night with merry notes, <br />And I will lead the clamoring day with rhyme.<br /><br />Edwin Markham<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cricket-6/
