Ode on Melancholy

I

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist

   Wolf's-bane, 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.

II

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.

III

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:

Aye, in the very temple of Delight

   Veiled 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 shall taste the sadness of her might,

 And be among her cloudy trophies hung.