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 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,
An seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
- J. Keats.