XV. On the Grasshopper an Cricket: XV. On the Grasshopper an Cricket

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.