The things of beauty are the sun, the moon, old and new trees, daffodils, clear rills, musk roses that bloom among the thick forest ferns..
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: