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