It's A Beautiful Thing...

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness 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 imagined 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.

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 o'ercast,

They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I

Will trace the story of Endymion.

The very music of the name has gone

Into my being, and each pleasant scene

Is growing fresh before me as the green

Of our own valleys: so I will begin

Now while I cannot hear the city's din;

Now while the early budders are just new,

And run in mazes of the youngest hue

About old forests; while the willow trails

Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails

Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year

Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer

My little boat, for many quiet hours,

With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.

Many and many a verse I hope to write,

Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,

Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees

Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,

I must be near the middle of my story.

O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,

See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,

With universal tinge of sober gold,

Be all about me when I make an end!

And now at once, adventuresome, I send

My herald thought into a wilderness:

There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress

My uncertain path with green, that I may speed

Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

I once talked of beauty, and by transit also impermanence, but perhaps not the interrelation of the two, as one would definitely infer from something such as Death. Such beauty can also be found in the world around us, lost in our pursuit of speed to prevent that deep feeling of something missed, when we pass to ash from this plane. To realize inner beauty to delve into the true nature of something, beyond what can be comprehended of observed from mere sight. Lost in a fantasy are some who would prefer that world to the one they live in, but who can blame those who see what may not be there, but is certainly real enough for mere fancy. Such stances are like the seasons, deep and lasting in each their own domain, shifting ever in response to the stirring of time, the harp maiden of emotion bottled in spatial vacuum. We must experience the dainty pleasure of such, lest it be for nothing, but a wilting corner of despair for time immemorial.

However, these essential aspects are not only fleeting as their bodies show, but great spirits of power that are very much eternal, as the mind of the sapient would think so dearly of itself. But no spatial thought will compare to the sweetness of a cherry, or the brush of a gale flowing effortlessly through the lush. Sooner would one got to madness as before, then get the same necessary energy from the natural spectacle that surrounds the universe, especially those of life. It makes one wonder why there are those who would wish it harm, like that of an insect impeding progress on perfection, misguided at that. Although, when you mind wanders, it tends to traverse much farther than the initial glance, seeing as the map scale is quite the downgrade to many paces. Hopefully the mirror of life can convince a sort of sense to those who trifle in the means which are of little concern and all convenience, so that the flower might live to brighten another face, before it too is wizened alongside the overgrown patch, lying in wait for the inevitable loss of more than just "beauty."

I imagine that Endymion would be quite troubled by the bones underlying the fragrant spring of life from which they travel. They would seem like a premature autumn, a early reminder that the frost is coming, and thus vengeance is reaped as the land curls up inside itself to weather its oppression. Such a journey would suppress any notion that a gallop through the meadows held beauty, yet that beauty would remain despite the stricken dumbness. Such a thing as true beauty can never be removed or altered, only changed. In realizing that, perhaps Endymion would see a network, a sort of fungal spinning that always returned and never relinquished, only blossomed, not with petals, but with joy. For a world without Joy is very ugly, and a world that is without Beauty, has little joy. But perhaps saddest of all worlds, is one without Death, because then there would be no fear, and without that, little could exist outside of crystal. Hard, glistening, captivating, and thoroughly hollow.