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


dark matter...