It may be Halloween . . .
. . . but it is also the birthday of one hauntingly Romantic poet,
and so in his honor, this excerpt from . . .
A Thing of Beauty (from Endymion)
. . . 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,
Her passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us til they become a cheering light
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.