A thing of beauty is a joy forever,it's 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 hand 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,make of your searching,yes,in spite of it all,some shape of beauty moves away from the pall,from our dark spirits