From Endymion BY John Keats BOOK I 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.         Nor do we merely feel these essences  For one short hour; no, even as the trees  That whisper round a temple become soon  Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,  The passion poesy, glories infinite,  Haunt us till they become a cheering light  […]

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