Ode On Melancholy
by: John Keats (1795 - 1821)
No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist
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 globèd peonies;
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Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone, The
Human Seasons, The
Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast As Thou Art
Fancy
When I Have Fears That I May Ceasa To Be
Where Be You Going, you Devon Maid?
When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be
To Autumn
Terror of Death, The
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