The lonesome wind of autumn grieves;
The northern lights are seen;
October sheds her changing leaves
Upon the churchyard green,
Where, sitting pensive in the sun,
While fading grasses wave,
I watch the crickets leap and run,
Upon a nameless grave.

There is no sigh of fluttering leaf,
No sob of rustling grass;
The breezes o'er this place of grief
In breathless whisper pass;
Yet, like a murmur in a dream,
Purls on that insect voice,—
That vacant tone, which does not seem
To mourn or to rejoice:

A tone that hath no soothing grace,
A tone that nothing saith,
A tone that's like this solemn place
Of memory, tears, and death,—
It darkens hope, it deepens gloom,
Black dread and doubt profound,
Turning the silence of the tomb
To more mysterious sound.

There's night upon the face of fame,
There's night on beauty's eyes,
Nor pure renown nor glorious shame
From out their ashes rise:
In vain we seek the shrine of prayer,
Of Nature ask in vain!
We only know the form that's there
Can never come again.

Ah, piteous, desolate, and drear
This dark, mysterious sleep,
O'er which the slowly dying year
Is all that seems to weep!
Ah, save him, in that bitter day,—
His heart, his reason save,—
Who hears the crickets chirp, at play,
Upon his darling's grave!