Classic Poem

I hear the crickets on the summer hills,
The wights whose shrill and intermittent voice,
In multitudinous chorus, makes the day
Seem interplight with ceaseless sound, the night
A sleep-begetting time, because their cry
Is constant still. And then I thought, how soon
The autumn's breath would blow and blight their cheer,
And sift above the grass the heartless snow
Of winter, while the bleak wind howled a jest
Above those minstrels buried in their prime.
And then I longed to know if, one and all,
These little bards, so strenuous in their chant,
Could look beyond December e'en to May,
E'en to another year at summer-tide.
When once again the hills should vocal be
With their swart brotherhood — could compass this
Prophetic hope, and so take heart of grace
To shrill and fill the air and pleasure me,
Until I loved them and their quest of song.