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 over-darkened 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 dafodils

with the green world they live in; and clear rills

that for themselves a cooling covert make

against 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

all lovely tales that we have heard or read

an endless fountain of immortal drink

pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink

there is beauty in all things

’tis only beauty that can save us

whoever denies beauty can never know joy

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