• sanya_taneja 46w

    A Thing of Beauty

    On every morrow,
    are we wreathing
    A flowery band
    to bind us to the earth,
    Spite of despondence,
    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.