Ode on Melancholy

    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.