POEM
On the Grasshopper and Cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun
And hide on cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
That is the Grashopper’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.
John Keats
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