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
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Our Song
Evening has given way to night. Gently, I settle next to you on the comfortable, old love seat and reach for your hand. You snatch it away, again. It cuts me to the quick, but I hide the pain, understanding that the reaction is but part of your demented state. Since the accident, your presence here in our cozy home has been clouded by a haze I can't see. Nevertheless, I feel the frigidity of your expressions and it serves as an excruciating reminder of the immeasurable distance between us.
By Dana Crandell3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
This was a beautiful poem by John Keats!
Nice piece of poetry Adan.