Thou cricket, that at dusk in the damp weeds, all that, alack! my sickly garden breeds, silverest the brown air with thy liquid note now eve is sharp, I, hearkening, dream remote the home my exiled heart hath somewhere known far from these busy days that make me lone, in twilit past, where the soon autumn damp is gather'd black above the yellow lamp that guides my feet towards the rustic roof infrequent, on the forest edge, aloof, as I return, nor fail to greet the way (ah, when?) the witness of my childish play, and feel that soon the silver-piled snow will make the watches warm beside the glow that just reveals, amid the enfolding gloom, the smoky joists of the familiar room: and while thy supper-song is shrilling thro' that well-kept nook, my musing shall renew its kindred of romance, the friendly throng that haunts the winters when the nights are long. Dusk lowers in this uneasy pause of rain; a blackness clings and thickens on the pane and damp grows; westward only, watery pale, two yellow streaks, wan glory, slowly fail: night shall be loud and thick with driving spears. ? And this was also in the haunting years this life hath never known, nor this abode, when the lone window watch'd the lonely road winding into the exiled west, across the desolate plain, with, seldom on its fosse tipt black against grey gloom, a poplar spire; and I could know the sunset's broken fire burn'd sombrely in many a leaden glass whose look was dead amid the morbid grass where never a dancing foot of harvest came and ways were lost, a land of vanish'd name.