ALL summer long the cricket sings,
But in June the busy birds,
Proud as youth, on their young wings
Sing above the lowing herds;
Willows whisper to the springs,
All the bright blue air is full
Of music, and our sense is dull.
By and by the birds are still,
By and by the herds withdrawn;
Summer bees have drunk their fill,
Autumn winds the flowers have strewn:
Then the crickets have their will;
Now, we say, is summer done,
Now the crickets have begun.