Beauty

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 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.

from Endymion, Book 1

John Keats

Beauty in another bower here.