On The Grasshopper and Cricket
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.