Explore "To the Cricket" by James Whitcomb Riley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The chiming seas may clang; and Tubal Cain / May clink his tinkling metals as he may; / Or Pan may sit and pipe his breath away; / Or Orpheus wake his most entrancing strain / Till not a note of melody remain! -- / But thou, O cricket, with thy roundelay, / Shalt laugh them all to scorn! So wilt thou, pray, / Trill me thy glad song o'er and o'er again: / I shall not weary; there is purest worth / In thy sweet prattle, since it sings the lone / Heart home again. Thy warbling hath no dearth / Of childish memories -- no harsher tone / Than we might listen to in gentlest mirth, / Thou poor plebeian minstrel of the hearth.