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 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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