Ode on Melancholy

'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.'

John Keats