bubble30
On the Grasshopper and 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 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
![[THE RINGÈD MOON SITS EERILY] - WILLIAM FAULKNER](/content/upload/posts/the-little-peach-20241225104916.png?width=200&height=150&mode=crop&scale=both&meta=square)
Yorumlar
ilk kez okuyan?
Yorum yazmak için lütfen giriş yapınız