endymion typhoid A thing of beauty is a joy forever: 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 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 for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagines for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read: An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink 000422 ... ashmanzhou he was loved cast aside like a dead thing yet he wept and cried unknowing his face streaked soul ruined in the coldest pain he was lost 030630 ... User24 playing with anagrams his dead soul aside, like he was a loved thing, unknowing yet he cried, wept the coldest face was ruined pain he lost, in cast and streaked 030630 what's it to you? who go blather from