| |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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. | 10 |
| |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
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