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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.



by John Keats

Description

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.



by John Keats