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.
D I G D E E P E R
(1795–1821). “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.” This is the epitaph that the poet John Keats prepared for himself. He thought of it in the dark days when he felt death drawing near and despaired of winning fame. During his seven years of writing, he had written some of the greatest poems in the English language.