Explore "Prologue" by Madison Cawein on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
/ _There is a poetry that speaks / Through common things: the grasshopper, / That in the hot weeds creaks and creaks, / Says all of summer to my ear: / And in the cricket's cry I hear / The fireside speak, and feel the frost / Work mysteries of silver near / On country casements, while, deep lost / In snow, the gatepost seems a sheeted ghost.
/ And other things give rare delight: / Those guttural harps the green-frogs tune, / Those minstrels of the falling night, / That hail the sickle of the moon / From grassy pools that glass her lune: / Or, -- all of August in its loud / Dry cry, -- the locust's call at noon, / That tells of heat and never a cloud / To veil the pitiless sun as with a shroud.