On The Grasshopper And The Cricket

July 14, 2019

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. 

 

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