On the Grasshopper and the Cricket
by John Keats
   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.
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
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