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 shall taste the sadness of her might,
          And be among her cloudy trophies hung.