Keats

Unless I have some­thing of import to write, this week is here­by des­ig­nat­ed as Adam Puts His Favorite Poems on His Web­site Week.

Ode to Melan­choly — John Keats

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.

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.