Poemsby Emily Dickinson

My Cricket

 Farther in summer than the birds, Pathetic from the grass, A minor nation celebrates Its unobtrusive mass. 
 No ordinance is seen, So gradual the grace, A pensive custom it becomes, Enlarging loneliness. 
 Antiquest felt at noon When August, burning low, Calls forth this spectral canticle, Repose to typify. 
 Remit as yet no grace, No furrow on the glow, Yet a druidic difference Enhances nature now.