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