A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: <br />Its lovliness increases; it will never <br />Pass into nothingness; but still will keep <br />A bower quiet for us, and a sleep <br />Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. <br />Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing <br />A flowery band to bind us to the earth, <br />Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth <br />Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, <br />Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways <br />Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, <br />Some shape of beauty moves away the pall <br />From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, <br />Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon <br />For simple sheep; and such are daffodils <br />With the green world they live in; and clear rills <br />That for themselves a cooling covert make <br />'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, <br />Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: <br />And such too is the grandeur of the dooms <br />We have imagined for the mighty dead; <br />An endless fountain of immortal drink, <br />Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.<br /><br />John Keats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-thing-of-beauty-endymion/
