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I
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.
II
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.
III
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.
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