If you're looking for a little break, enjoy this earthly pleasure by John Keats, who jotted this sonnet down in December of 1816 when he was 21-years-old.

"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.

-- JK, 1816

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