On the Grasshopper and the Cricket

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 never has 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 (1795-1821), from The Echoing Green: Poems of Fields, Meadows, and Grasses, 2016