Sonnet XV: On the Grasshopper and Cricket
by John Keats (1795-1821)
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.
(This poem is in the public domain.)
Running Into Life 
That’s beautiful. But it makes me kind of sad, because I can’t help thinking that the earth is a very different place now than when Keats wrote it.
LikeLike
Yes, that is a good point. Very different. I’m trying to figure out a way to balance finding beauty and finding the sadness. Thanks for reading and commenting!
LikeLike