Thursday, 2 June 2016

The Thursday Poem

Potted Flowers with Books IV
Eric Barjot


From  Endymion
Book 1

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 of our searching; yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits.

John Keats
(31st October 1795 - 23rd February 1821)

1 comment:

S. J. Qualls said...

Always lovely, Sharon