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’ertaxèd 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 thrills Of the live oak, and all its twinkling leaves,

And little ports, that make a nice soft sound, When the wind shakes them amongst the branches.

It is a great help and a lovely thing, When you do not have to think of the voiceless And tender things under your feet, beneath it all. — Endymion, Book I

• John Keats