The Grasshopper and Cricket

HE poetry of earth is never dead;
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun
Andhide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mownmead.
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.
THE KITTEN
Onalone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought asilence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, inwarmth increasing ever,
And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost,
The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.