Explore "My Cricket" by Emily Dickinson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.