Ode On Melancholy

Ode On Melancholy

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
    Wolf's-bane, tight rooted, for it's 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 hills 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 in 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 grapes against his palate fine;
     His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
         And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

John Keats

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