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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. |