Hope springs eternal

For those of us still stoking the woodstove, a bit of Keats:

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.


Putting on another split of ash,
Wm