Spring Cricket

by Frances Rodman

He put away his tiny pipe

Last autumn, when the gale was chill:

And now in rusty coat and brown

He tries his strength upon the hill

With fiddle tucked beneath a wing

He staggers over a stubbled ground

He climbs upon a sunny stone

Shakes winter off, and looks around

He polishes his dingy coat

And scrapes a valiant tune and high

To tell his tiny universe

That April's due to saunter by.

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