When the bulb of the moon with white fire fills
And dead leaves crackle under the feet,
When men roll kegs to the cider mills
And chestnuts roast on every street;
When the night sky glows like a hollow shell
Of lustered emerald and pearl,
The kilted cricket knows too well
His doom. His tiny bagpipes skirl.
Quavering under the polished stars
In stubble, thicket, and frosty copse
The cricket blows a few choked bars,
And puts away his pipe—and stops.
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