In the evening, I sit near my poker and tongs, And I dream in the firelight's glow, And sometimes I quaver forgotten old songs That I listened to long ago. Then out of the cinders there cometh a chirp Like an echoing, answering cry,— Little we care for the outside world, My friend the cricket and I. For my cricket has learnt, I am sure of it quite, That this earth is a silly, strange place, And perhaps he's been beaten and hurt in the fight, And perhaps he's been passed in the race. But I know he has found it far better to sing Than to talk of ill luck and to sigh,— Little we care for the outside world, My friend the cricket and I. Perhaps he has loved, and perhaps he has lost, And perhaps he is weary and weak, And tired of life's torrent, so turbid and tost, And disposed to be mournful and meek. yet still I believe that he thinks it is best To sing, and let troubles float by,— My we care for the outside world, My friend the cricket and I. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE; ELECTION BALLAD by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY THE NIGHT COURT by RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL ABRAHAM LINCOLN (1) by RICHARD HENRY STODDARD SONNET: TO J.M.K. by ALFRED TENNYSON MEADOW-SAFFRON by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE SATISFIED by HESTER A. BENEDICT |