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No, no, go
not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane,
tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy
pale forehead to be kissed
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,
Imprison 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
Veiled 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.
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