| |
A THING of beauty is a joy forever: | |
| 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. | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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 | 20 |
| 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. | |
| |
