no, no, go not to lethe, neither twist
wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
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 more 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.

john keats