NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist   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 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.

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.