Ode to Melancholy ~ John Keats

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 shalt taste the sadness of her might,
        And be among her cloudy trophies hung