Ode to Melancholy
NO, no, go not to Lethe, neither twistWolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissedBy nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine:Make not your rosary of yew-berries,Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth beYour mournful Psyche, nor the downy owlA 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 fallSudden from heaven like a weeping cloudThat 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 a 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 lipsBidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips.Ay, in the very temple of DelightVeiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongueCan burst Joy’s grapes against his palate fine;His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
HARTLEY COLERIDGE 1796–1849