Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
John Keats. 17951821628. Ode on Melancholy
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, | 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 |