On The Grasshopper And Cricket

Este poema é um tanto ou quanto bizarro. Afinal qual o poeta que teria a estranha ideia de escrever um poema sobre gafanhotos e grilos? Só John Keats... que se calhar gostava de insectos. Ou talvez gostasse deles como eu gosto - numa imagem ou então espetados numa placa de madeira; como o pessoal que gosta de fazer colecções. Espero bem que a liga protectora dos animais não leia isto... o.O;;

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, On The Grasshopper And Cricket