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’ver-darkn’d 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;
An endles fountain om 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’s self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinit,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our soul, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine, or gloom of o’ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

John Keats (1795-1821)