Ode on Melancholy
John Keats
1795 to 1821
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No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall the sadness of her might,
And be among her trophies hung.