The Crickets In The Fields Poem by Edward Rowland Sill

ONE, or a thousand voices?—filling noon
With such an undersong and drowsy chant
As sings in ears that waken from a swoon,
And know not yet which world such murmurs haunt.
Single, then double beats, reiterant;
Far off and near; one ceaseless, changeless tune.

If bird or breeze awake the dreamy will
We lose the song, as it had never been;
Then suddenly we find 't is singing still
And had not ceased. So, friend of mine, within
My thoughts one underthought, beneath the din
Of life, doth every quiet moment fill.
Thy voice is far, thy face is hid from me,
But day and night are full of dreams of thee.