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；
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.