...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 heath, and quiet breathg.
And therefore on every morrow are we wreathing,
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence of inhuman dearth,
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and overdarkened ways
Made for our searching, yes, in spite of all
Some shape of beauty moves away the poll,
Such are the sun, the moon, trees old and young,
Sprouting its shady boon
For simple sheep, and such are the daffodils
With the green world they live in, and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
Against the hot season, the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms,
And such are the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead,
All lovely stories that we have heard or read,
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour. No, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine or gloom overcast,
They always must be with us,
Or we die.

[показать]