Endymion - A Thing of Beauty
Keats, John (1795-1821)

  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.

                                                             from Endymion

Immortal Poems of the English Language (Williams)