I

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.