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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, or the gloomy days, of all the unhealthy and over-darkened ways made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, some shape of beauty moves away the pall from our dark spirits. (Excerpt from Keats' Endymion)
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