Classic Poem

O, the voices of the crickets,
Chirping sad along the lea,
Seem the very tears of music
Wept in vain despair for me;
And the katydids' responses
From among the locust-leaves
Are the weak and wild regrettings
Of far other autumn-eves.

For they mind me, Emma Stuart,
Of the bygone blessed times
When our heartbeats paired together
Like sweet syllables in rhymes;
Ere the faith of love was broken —
Ere our locked hands fell apart
And the vanity of promise
Left a void in either heart.

Art thou happy, Emma Stuart?
I again may happy be
Nevermore: the insects crying
In the grass and on the tree,
As if singing songs of sorrow
At the coming of the frost,
Are to me love's fallen angels
Wailing for their heaven lost.

Often, often, Emma Stuart,
On such solemn nights as this
Have we sat and mused together
Of the perfectness of bliss —
Of the hope that lit the darkness
Of the future with its ray,
Shining like a star in heaven,
Beautiful, but far away!

By the gateway, where the maple
Of the moonlight made eclipse
And the river-ripple sounded
Like the murmur of fond lips,
There a little maiden waited,
Telling all the moments o'er —
Emma Stuart! Emma Stuart!
Waits the maiden there no more?

No, ah, no! Along the pathway
Grows the high untrampled grass,
Where the cricket stops to listen
For thy wonted feet to pass;
But thy footsteps, Emma Stuart,
Press no more the doorway-stone,
Trip no more along the pathway —
And the cricket sings alone!