• sanya_taneja 2w

    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.