Book II

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.