"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."

- John Keats