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.