SHE WALKS

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deems
For that sweet odor which doth in it live.

The snowdrop of dogs, with ears of the brownest dye,
Like the last orphan leaf of a naked tree
Which shudders in black autumn; though by thee,
Of hearing careless and untutored eye,
Still will I harvest beauty where it grows:
In colored fungus and the spotted fog
Surprised on foods forgotten; in ditch and bog
Filmed brilliantly with irregular rainbows
Of rust and oil, where half a city throws
Its empty tins; and in some spongy log
A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
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, health, and quiet breathing.