Ode on Melancholy

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
     Wolfsbane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
     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 heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
     And hides the green hill 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,
     Imprison 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;
Ay, in the very temple of delight
     Veiled Melancholy has her sov'reign 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.