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 ****.
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 increasing ever,
      And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
      The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.