Lyrics Ode On Melancholy - Sir Ralph Richardson
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
shalt
taste
the
sadness
of
her
might,
And
be
among
her
cloudy
trophies
hung.
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