GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET 177 



When the fierce northwestern blast 

 Cools sea and land so far and fast, 

 Thou already slumberest deep ; 

 Woe and want thou canst outsleep : 

 Want and woe, which torture us, 

 Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 



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 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. 



M 



