On the grasshopper and the cricket, 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 moon mead. That is the grasshoppers. 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 seizing never on a lone winter evening when the frost has wrought us silence from the stove their shrills, the cricket song in warmth increasing ever and seems to one in drowsiness half lost. The grasshoppers among some grassy hills.