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