Here's a Mary Oliver poem that made me cry the other night, called "Nothing Is Too Small Not to Be Wondered About" from her wonderful book Felicity.
The cricket doesn't wonder
if there's a heaven
or, if there is, if there's room for him.It's fall. Romance is over. Still, he sings.
If he can, he enters a house
through the tiniest crack under the door.
Then the house grows colder.He sings slower and slower.
Then, nothing.This must mean something, I don't know what.
But certainly it doesn't mean
he hasn't been an excellent cricket
all his life.