A Thing Of Beauty (Endymion)
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.
