On The Grasshopper And 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 - 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 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.





A field...






Some ladybugs...










And a big fat grasshopper jumping at you!