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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John Keats
John Keats