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- 1816
- ODE ON MELANCHOLY
- by John Keats
-
- 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 too drowsily,
- And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
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- 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.
-
-
- THE END
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