533. Ode on Melancholy

John Keats (1795—1821)

  NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist

  Wolf’s-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 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 globèd 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.