Rustily creak the crickets: Jack Frost came down last night,
He slid to earth on a starbeam, keen and sparkling bright;
He sought in the grass for the crikets with delicate icy spear,
So sharp and fine and fatal, and he stabbed them far and near.
Only a few stout fellows, thawed by the morning sun,
Chirrup a mournful echo of by-gone frolic and fun.
But yesterday such a rippling chorus ran all over the land,
Over the hills and the valleys, down to the gray sea-sand,
Millions of merry harlequins, skipping and dancing in glee,
Cricket and locust and grasshopper, happy as happy could be:
Scooping rich caves in ripe apples, and feeding on honey and spice,
Drunk with the mellow sunshine, nor dreaming of spears of ice!