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-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 daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make ‘Gainst the hot season; the chaff-choked streams, From whose held soporific streams, And their visionary dreams,

And all the blessed places of our dreams.

We can feel their gentle breath, and we breathe The airy heights where poets’ beauty dwells;
These give us hope, and when we feel The weight of darkness upon our souls,
A shape of beauty moves us from its pall.

• John Keats