by John Keats
To Autumn

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 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 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.