A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

by John Keats

　　A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

　　Its lovliness 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-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 endless fountain of immortal drink,

　　Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.