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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SUPERSEDED by THOMAS HARDY ANDROMEDA by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI by JOHN KEATS THE PAUPER'S DRIVE by THOMAS NOEL THE THREE TROOPERS DURING THE PROTECTORATE by GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY RAILWAY DREAMINGS by ALEXANDER ANDERSON |