letra de ode on melancholy - richard johnson
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 heavеn like a weeping cloud
that fosters the droop-hеaded 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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