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. |
John Keats
| Classic Poems |
|
[ La Belle Dame Sans Merci ] [ Ode to a Nightingale ] [ Ode on a Grecian Urn ] [ Ode on Indolence ] [ Ode to Psyche ] [ Ode on Melancholy ] [ Ode to autumn ] |