Poetry Sunday: An August Cricket by Arthur Goodenough
So, I was sitting on my patio late Saturday afternoon enjoying the "coolness" that comes with that time of day. Well, in late August in Southeast Texas, it is not exactly what one could call coolness, but the sun had gone to its rest behind the trees and so the temperature had become bearable. All was quiet and then behind me near our little goldfish pond, the August crickets began their "healing melody." And yes, I did feel "renewed in frame and spirit" as Arthur Goodenough expressed it so well.
An August Cricket
by Arthur Goodenough
When August days are hot and long,
And the August hills are hazy,
And clouds are slow and winds also,
And brooks are low and lazy.
When beats the fierce midsummer sun,
Upon the drying grasses;
A modest minstrel sings his song
To any soul that passes.
A modest, yet insistent bard
Who while the landscape slumbers;
And Nature seems, herself asleep,
Pours out his soul in numbers.
His song is in a tongue unknown,
Yet those, methink, who hear it
Drink in it's healing melody
Renewed in frame and spirit.
His life is brief as is the leaf
To summer branches clinging!
But yet no thought of death or grief,
He mentions in his singing.
No epic strain is his to sing;—
No tale of loss or glory;—
He has no borrowed heroines;
His heroes are not gory.
He is no scholar; all he knows
Was taught by his condition,
He never studied synthesis,
Nor simple composition.
His lays are all of rustic themes;
Of summer's joys and treasure
Yet scarce could Homer's masterpiece,
Afford us keener pleasure.
An August Cricket
by Arthur Goodenough
When August days are hot and long,
And the August hills are hazy,
And clouds are slow and winds also,
And brooks are low and lazy.
When beats the fierce midsummer sun,
Upon the drying grasses;
A modest minstrel sings his song
To any soul that passes.
A modest, yet insistent bard
Who while the landscape slumbers;
And Nature seems, herself asleep,
Pours out his soul in numbers.
His song is in a tongue unknown,
Yet those, methink, who hear it
Drink in it's healing melody
Renewed in frame and spirit.
His life is brief as is the leaf
To summer branches clinging!
But yet no thought of death or grief,
He mentions in his singing.
No epic strain is his to sing;—
No tale of loss or glory;—
He has no borrowed heroines;
His heroes are not gory.
He is no scholar; all he knows
Was taught by his condition,
He never studied synthesis,
Nor simple composition.
His lays are all of rustic themes;
Of summer's joys and treasure
Yet scarce could Homer's masterpiece,
Afford us keener pleasure.
It’s true. There is something uniquely soothing about the sound of crickets, and strangely reassuring.
ReplyDeleteAlthough I don't look forward to the first cricket song of the season, it is such a soothing song. Once it's here, I enjoy hearing it. I'll be sorry when it ends.
ReplyDeleteCrickets and summer just go together! Love this poem...as always. :D
ReplyDeleteI remember the sounds of crickets every evening in summer when I was a kid. A happy memory.
ReplyDelete