On Crickets

Just a quick write, but i like it.

The pale, immortal cricket,

    Whose song lays o'er the night,

Is hiding in a thicket,

    Concealed from human sight.

To tirelessly tell his tale until the morning light.

How strange to think that Shakespeare,

    While he in London stood,

Could on a quiet night hear

    Their singing from the wood.

That Macbeth heard their fatal song while he in a castle stood.