Option 3

by Edward Alan Bartholomew 

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Fancy in my lover's eyes:

It is for you the cricket cries;

Notice how he sinks to sleep

Each morning when her eyelids rise. 


Or else the sun chars off his legs

And sends him drowning to the dregs

Of consciousness, whose cup is deep

And fits him with ethereal pegs: 


Alas, they let the cricket fly

But cease to sing our lullaby,

Or drenched with dreaming, resonate

Not while we sleep but when we try.