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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420945" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Endymion (excerpts)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">From BOOK I </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: <br> Its loveliness increases; it will never<br> Pass into nothingness; but still will keep<br> A bower quiet for us, and a sleep<br> Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.<br> Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing<br> A flowery band to bind us to the earth,<br> Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth<br> Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,<br> Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways<br> Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,<br> Some shape of beauty moves away the pall<br> From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,<br> Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon<br> For simple sheep; and such are daffodils<br> With the green world they live in; and clear rills<br> That for themselves a cooling covert make<br> 'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,<br> Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:<br> And such too is the grandeur of the dooms<br> We have imagined for the mighty dead;<br> All lovely tales that we have heard or read:<br> An endless fountain of immortal drink,<br> Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.<br> Nor do we merely feel these essences<br> For one short hour; no, even as the trees<br> That whisper round a temple become soon<br> Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,<br> The passion poesy, glories infinite,<br> Haunt us till they become a cheering light<br> Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,<br> That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast;<br> They always must be with us, or we die.<br> Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I<br> Will trace the story of Endymion.<br> The very music of the name has gone<br> Into my being, and each pleasant scene<br> Is growing fresh before me as the green<br> Of our own valleys: so I will begin<br> Now while I cannot hear the city's din;<br> Now while the early budders are just new,<br> And run in mazes of the youngest hue<br> About old forests; while the willow trails<br> Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails<br> Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year<br> Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer<br> My little boat, for many quiet hours,<br> With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.<br> Many and many a verse I hope to write,<br> Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,<br> Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees<br> Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,<br> I must be near the middle of my story.<br> O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,<br> See it half finish'd: but let Autumn bold,<br> With universal tinge of sober gold,<br> Be all about me when I make an end.<br> And now, at once adventuresome, I send<br> My herald thought into a wilderness:<br> There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress<br> My uncertain path with green, that I may speed<br> Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.<br> ...</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Keats">John Keats</a><div class=q>
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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 ev..."></div>
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