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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,
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.
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