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 mead¹；

    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 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