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.

               Emily Dickinson 

The cricket sang,

And set the sun,

And workmen finished, one by one,

Their seam the day upon.

The low grass loaded with the dew,

The twilight stood as strangers do

With hat in hand, polite and new,

To stay as if, or go.

A vastness, as a neighbor, came,--

A wisdom without face or name,

A peace, as hemispheres at home,--

And so the night became.

                   J.M.Yates

One by one

The heave doors

of my senses

Swing open into the spring

Things I spent the winter naming

Struggle free of

Their round syllables

Sing down the full throats

Of the fattening birds

In the dark

When the air relaxes

The rages of singing and wings

Small circles descend

Toward the grass:

Each encapsulates seventeen years.