The thunder scolds the cricket For a noisy afternoon; The lightning feigns a yawn's fatigue When the glowworm mimes the moon.
But the cricket and the glowworm Are unabashed by odds; They know that heaven once designed Some playthings for the gods.
Two tiny insects face down the sky in Nathalia Crane's "The Playthings." In the first stanza, the thunder and lightning act like grumpy grown-ups. The thunder scolds the cricket for making a racket, and the lightning pretends to yawn with boredom when the glowworm imitates the moon. The big forces of nature come across as impatient and a little snobbish toward the little ones.
The second stanza turns the situation around. The cricket and the glowworm don't care that the odds are stacked against them. They carry on, because they know something the thunder doesn't: heaven made them, along with other small wonders, as playthings for the gods. Being small isn't a flaw. It's a kind of purpose, and maybe even a privilege.
The mood is light, witty, and quietly defiant. The speaker seems amused by the sky's grandeur and sides with the underdogs, finding a cheerful confidence in being tiny and playful.