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A Thing of Beauty



A Thing of Beauty :




A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:


Its lovliness 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-darkn'd 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;


An endless fountain of immortal drink,


Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.



By
John Keats






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