20 July 2006 | Vol. 6, No. 2

Ode on Melancholy

by JOHN KEATS

1.

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist

  Wolfs-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.