John Keats — On the Grasshopper and the 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 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.