The poetry of earth is never dead: br When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, br And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run br From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; br That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead br In summer luxury,--he has never done br With his delights; for when tired out with fun br He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. br The poetry of earth is ceasing never: br On a lone winter evening, when the frost br Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills br The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, br And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, br The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.