Ode on Melancholy John Keats
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolfs-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, nor 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 haven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all;
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave.
Or on the wealth globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and aching Pleasure nigh,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with 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:
Ay, 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 shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
