Friday, February 1


A Thing of Beauty (Endymion)

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness 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-darkn'd 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;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

John Keats

What is beautiful?

Beautiful is the ‘thank you’
Wrapped with gratitude
Offered to someone
Who goes out of his way,

Sidetracking his own self-
Nay, his very survival,
To help a lame dog
Over the hedge.
Beautiful is he

Though without tomorrow
Enjoys the heat of the moment
Or the cold stare of fate
Without sorrow
Cultivates good feelings

In the teeth of adversity
Notwithstanding in a second
His breath could be taken away.
Beautiful is he who nurses
The victims through the thick of war

Carrying his humanity
Quietly and humbly
In a bloodthirsty world.

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