Glorious shinning star of winter evening, splendor of childhood
Icon of innocence, star of neighborhood on the West horizon brink
Star of dump evening against the moon stooping as the night seemed to sink
On the far open field bosom encircled by pine trees hood
When I see you now again at winter evening air
You draw me back to be again there
Those days will never leave us in joy or in anguish
Those glamorous winter nights will keep off our languish
The poetry of childhood is never done, never dead:
When all the birds were faint with the hot sun,
And hide at evening in cooling trees, a voice would run
From hedge to hedge about the scent of new-mown mead
I remember a regular tenant the Grasshopper's in the pale moon light he took the lead
In summer evening luxury, he had never done
With his delights and roaming; for when tired out with fun
He withdrew to rest at calm and ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The memories of childhood are ceasing never, are with us ever
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Had wrought a silence, from the old stove there I heard shrills
The monotonous Cricket's song, in warmth increasing yet not clever
And seemed to me in blurring drowsiness half lost,
Disguising the Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
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