Emily Dickinson - My Cricket lyrics

Farther in summer than the birds, Pathetic from the gra**, A minor nation celebrates Its unobtrusive ma**. No ordinance is seen, So gradual the grace, A pensive custom it becomes, Enlarging loneliness. Antiquest felt at noon When August, burning low, Calls forth this spectral canticle, Repose to typify. Remit as yet no grace, No furrow on the glow, Yet a druidic difference Enhances nature now.