on the grasshopper and cricket by john keats - ghizela rowe lyrics
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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 poеtry of earth is ceasing nevеr:
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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