1
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
2
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
3
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
4
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
5
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
6
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
7
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
8
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
9
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
10
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
1
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
2
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
3
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
4
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
5
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
6
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
7
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
8
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
9
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
10
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
1
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
2
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
3
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
4
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
5
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
6
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
7
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
8
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
9
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
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