Endymion | John Keats

Endymion John Keats 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 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 our 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 reels That for themselves a cooling covert make Gains the hot season, the mid-forest break Rich with the sprinkling of fair moss-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 heavens' 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, glorious 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 overcast 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 borders are just new And run in mazes of the youngest you About old forests, while the willow trails Its delicate amber and the dairy pales 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 bars Many and many a verse I hope to write Before the daisies, vermil, rimmed and white Hide in deep herbage, and e'er yet the bees Hum about globes of clover and sweet peace I must be near the middle of my story O may no wintry season, bare and hoary Seethe half-finished, but let autumn bold With universal tings 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 through flowers and weed