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 Grasshopperâsâhe takes the lead In summer luxury,âhe has never done With his delights; for when tired out with fun He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. âJohn Keats (1795â1821) |
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