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 rilis.

That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gaints 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 fountin of immortal drink, pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.