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John Keats : On The Grasshopper and Cricket

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. 

John Keats (1795-1821)	1816

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