                                      1816
                               ODE ON MELANCHOLY
                                 by John Keats

                          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 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.

                         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,
          Emprison 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:
        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.

                        THE END
.
