WHEN the bulb of the moon with white fire fills And dead leaves crackle under the feet, When men roll kegs to the cider mills And chestnuts roast on every street; When the night sky glows like a hollow shell Of lustered emerald and pearl, The kilted cricket knows too well His doom. His tiny bagpipes skirl. Quavering under the polished stars In stubble, thicket, and frosty copse The cricket blows a few choked bars, And puts away his pipe -- and stops. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO BAYARD TAYLOR by SIDNEY LANIER A CERTAIN POET ON THE DEBATES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS PORTRAIT BY A NEIGHBOR by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY LOVE AND AGE by THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK WHEN LET BY RAIN by EDWARD TAYLOR QUATRAIN: OMAR KHAYYAM (AFTER FITZGERALD) by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |