A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

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 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. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 

For one short hour; no, even as the trees 

That whisper round a temple become soon 

Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 

The passion poesy, glories infinite, 

Haunt us till they become a cheering light 

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast 

That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast, 

They always must be with us, or we die. 

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I 

Will trace the story of Endymion. 

The very music of the name has gone 

Into my being, and each pleasant scene 

Is growing fresh before me as the green 

Of our own valleys: so I will begin 

Now while I cannot hear the city's din; 

Now while the early budders are just new, 

And run in mazes of the youngest hue 

About old forests; while the willow trails 

Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails 

Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year 

Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer 

My little boat, for many quiet hours, 

With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. 

Many and many a verse I hope to write, 

Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white, 

Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees 

Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, 

I must be near the middle of my story. 

O may no wintry season, bare and hoary, 

See it half finished: but let Autumn bold, 

With universal tinge of sober gold, 

Be all about me when I make an end! 

And now at once, adventuresome, I send 

My herald thought into a wilderness: 

There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress 

My uncertain path with green, that I may speed 

Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.