Ode on Melancholy

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist

      Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd

      By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;

Make not your rosary of yew-berries,

      Nor let the beetle, or the death-moth be

            Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl

A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;

      For shade to shade will come too drowsily,

            And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

      Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

      And hides the green hills in an April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

      Or on the rainbow of the salt-sand wave,

            Or on the wealth of globed peonies;

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

      Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

            And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

      And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

      Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Aye, in the very temple of Delight

      Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

            Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

      Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,

            And be among her cloudy trophies hung.