In the evening, I sit near my poker and tongs, And I dream in the firelight's glow, And sometimes I quaver forgotten old songs That I listened to long ago. Then out of the cinders there cometh a chirp Like an echoing, answering cry,— Little we care for the outside world, My friend the cricket and I. For my cricket has learnt, I am sure of it quite, That this earth is a silly, strange place, And perhaps he's been beaten and hurt in the fight, And perhaps he's been passed in the race. But I know he has found it far better to sing Than to talk of ill luck and to sigh,— Little we care for the outside world, My friend the cricket and I. Perhaps he has loved, and perhaps he has lost, And perhaps he is weary and weak, And tired of life's torrent, so turbid and tost, And disposed to be mournful and meek. yet still I believe that he thinks it is best To sing, and let troubles float by,— My we care for the outside world, My friend the cricket and I. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHANGED WOMAN by LOUISE BOGAN NORTH WINTER by HAYDEN CARRUTH GOOD-BYE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON PROVING by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO JOHN BROWN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON BEFORE A PAINTING by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE HARD TIMES IN ELFLAND; A STORY OF CHRISTMAS EVE by SIDNEY LANIER |