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 a quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite the 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…
 – from Endymion, John Keats (1795-1821)