Last year I sat within my room,
And heard the cricket in the gloom
Chirp out his palpitating lay,
As if he were on holiday.
I sat and heard him, for he brought
Sad things to sadden all my thought,
And, full of fancy, I could hear
Whispers that caught my eager ear.
And I was touched by ghostly hands
That reached to me from higher lands;
One touched me on the head; I bent,
I knew the touch and what it meant.
To-night no cricket can be seen
Or heard to chirp and trill between
The pauses; and the lonely hearth
Is lonelier wanting all his mirth.
Can he have met that fate which flings
Its shadow over human things,
And fled away from all I view,
Silent, like other voices, too?
I know not; only as I sit
And watch the firelight shadows flit,
The voice that trilled its rich delight
Last year is dumb to me to-night.