The Spirit of Man ‘Future Life’

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-darkenen’d ways

Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pal!

From our dark spirits . . 

 

Keats

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