Tiny , pea-green harlequin!
What of wonder can describe
All your odd, gymnastic tribe,
To the kangaroo akin?
Unless Darwin goes amiss,
With his queer hypothesis.
Vaulter of the summer grasses,
Skipping from whoever passes,
Or concluding no great harm meant,
Clinging, burr-like, to my garment, —
What of comedy surpasses
Yours? Pray tell me what you mean,
Long elfin green,
By those antic evolutions,
Somersets and revolutions,
You indulge in all the while so,
Making serious people smile so?
For what intent
You were meant, or sent,
Is a problem most abstruse.
Questionless, you have a use,
If the little powers of man,
All the mystery could scan,
Of the universal plan.
Chirping charmer, clover climber,
Insect athlete! never stumbling,
In your ground and lofty tumbling,
Strange it is a thing so fragile
Should be so extremely agile!
When long summer dries the marshes
Your small gong a little harsh is;
But you doubtless like it better
Then when fields are something wetter,
Rank with rain or damp with dew,
For like many a modern toper,
Summer-solstice interloper,
Water don't agree with you!
And like artists who sing louder,
Though perhaps a trifle prouder,
Your falsettos, with good reason,
Must be given in " The Season. "
Sometimes, silent on a picket,
I have watched you sit an hour,
Till some melancholy cricket
Would his noonday song outpour,
Then you'd rub your parchment wings
With your fiddle-bows and things, —
Lantern jaws,
And legs like saws,
'Till it seemed from such a clatter,
Something dreadful was the matter!
Over zealous, if not jealous,
In your drumming and your blowing,
Probably you thought your bellows
Might as well give out in showing
How to do a thing worth knowing!
Go it then, spasmodic leaper!
Seize your pleasure while you may;
Blow your horn and have your day;
When the primrose days are over,
And all dead are vines and clover,
That austere, remorseless reaper,
Time, will turn us all to hay!
When October,
Like a varlet,
Robs the woodland's summer dress;
And the maple, blushing scarlet,
As the ruffian winds disrobe her,
Shrinks in timorous distress;
When no longer leans the lily
By the mill-ponds mossy edge,
And an influence damp and chilly,
Blasts the rose and daffodilly,
And the vines along the ledge —
When the cricket
Leaves the thicket,
To creep under kitchen rugs,
Then, O mountebank of bugs!
Unique acrobatic vaulter,
Your frail powers will fail and falter;
And some chill, autumnal morning,
Lying dying,
Without warning,
You will find it useless trying,
Leaping, creeping, singing, flying;
With some early robin waiting
Cool and calm and aggravating,
Like some grim and hungry wizard,
Obviously deliberating,
When to pop you in his gizzard.
Farewell butterflies and clover,
Death is fate the wide world over!
What of wonder can describe
All your odd, gymnastic tribe,
To the kangaroo akin?
Unless Darwin goes amiss,
With his queer hypothesis.
Vaulter of the summer grasses,
Skipping from whoever passes,
Or concluding no great harm meant,
Clinging, burr-like, to my garment, —
What of comedy surpasses
Yours? Pray tell me what you mean,
Long elfin green,
By those antic evolutions,
Somersets and revolutions,
You indulge in all the while so,
Making serious people smile so?
For what intent
You were meant, or sent,
Is a problem most abstruse.
Questionless, you have a use,
If the little powers of man,
All the mystery could scan,
Of the universal plan.
Chirping charmer, clover climber,
Insect athlete! never stumbling,
In your ground and lofty tumbling,
Strange it is a thing so fragile
Should be so extremely agile!
When long summer dries the marshes
Your small gong a little harsh is;
But you doubtless like it better
Then when fields are something wetter,
Rank with rain or damp with dew,
For like many a modern toper,
Summer-solstice interloper,
Water don't agree with you!
And like artists who sing louder,
Though perhaps a trifle prouder,
Your falsettos, with good reason,
Must be given in " The Season. "
Sometimes, silent on a picket,
I have watched you sit an hour,
Till some melancholy cricket
Would his noonday song outpour,
Then you'd rub your parchment wings
With your fiddle-bows and things, —
Lantern jaws,
And legs like saws,
'Till it seemed from such a clatter,
Something dreadful was the matter!
Over zealous, if not jealous,
In your drumming and your blowing,
Probably you thought your bellows
Might as well give out in showing
How to do a thing worth knowing!
Go it then, spasmodic leaper!
Seize your pleasure while you may;
Blow your horn and have your day;
When the primrose days are over,
And all dead are vines and clover,
That austere, remorseless reaper,
Time, will turn us all to hay!
When October,
Like a varlet,
Robs the woodland's summer dress;
And the maple, blushing scarlet,
As the ruffian winds disrobe her,
Shrinks in timorous distress;
When no longer leans the lily
By the mill-ponds mossy edge,
And an influence damp and chilly,
Blasts the rose and daffodilly,
And the vines along the ledge —
When the cricket
Leaves the thicket,
To creep under kitchen rugs,
Then, O mountebank of bugs!
Unique acrobatic vaulter,
Your frail powers will fail and falter;
And some chill, autumnal morning,
Lying dying,
Without warning,
You will find it useless trying,
Leaping, creeping, singing, flying;
With some early robin waiting
Cool and calm and aggravating,
Like some grim and hungry wizard,
Obviously deliberating,
When to pop you in his gizzard.
Farewell butterflies and clover,
Death is fate the wide world over!