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 RAT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE PARTING OF THE WAYS by JOSEPH BENSON GILDER THE MOTHER IN THE HOUSE by HERMANN HAGEDORN THE BROWN THRUSH by LUCY LARCOM SONNET: EUTERPE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH NEW YORK HARBOR by PARK BENJAMIN DEDICATIONS AND INSCRIPTIONS: 8. BEAM-VERSES AT WELL KNOWE by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |