Ode On Melancholy

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist     Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;     Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist     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 sorrows 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     Veild Melancholy has her sovran shrine,     Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue     Can burst Joys grape against his palate fine;     His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,     And be among her cloudy trophies hung.