| 1. |
| 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.
|
| 2. |
| 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.
|
| 3. |
| 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. |
