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Poem	A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loviliness 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 despondance, 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, inspite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits.
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