On the Grasshopper and Cricket
John Keats
1795 to 1821
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The Poetry of earth is never dead:
When all birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's—he takes lead
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.