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 . .