A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us,
And a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing a flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils with the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make 'gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: and such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead; all lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink, pouring unto us from the heaven's brink...
