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Poem by Edward Rowland Sill The Crickets in the Fields ONE, or a thousand voices?--filling noon With such an undersong and drowsy chant As sings in ears that waken from a swoon, And know not yet which world such murmurs haunt: &nsp;Single, then double beats, reiterant; Far off and near; one ceaseless, changeless tune. If bird or breeze awake the dreamy will We lose the song, as it had never been; Then suddenly we find 't is singing still And had not ceased. So, friend of mine, within My thoughts one underthought, beneath the din Of life, doth every quiet moment fill. Thy voice is far, thy face is hid from me, But day and night are full of dreams of thee. Edward Rowland Sill Edward Rowland Sill's other poems: 1195 Views |
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