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John Keats - Ode On Melancholy
Work rating: Medium

1.
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.

2.
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.

3.
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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