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. 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-darken'd ways made for our searching:
yes, in spite of all, some shape of beauty
moves away the pall from our dark spirits..
John Keats
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