JOHN KEATS - “Ode on Melancholy”

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, 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,
      Emprison 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
      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.