Ode on Melancholy

by John Keats

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
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,
Imprison 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
Veiled 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.

Comment: Today I’m bringing us all back to high school English class with a John Keats submission. (Perhaps a double-dip into the the "black waters of Lethe" after Casey's Ginsberg poem!) However, the reason I thought of it was the line, a “wealth of globed peonies,” which appeared in a novel by Debra Weinstein a few years back, and which always returns to my mind this time of year when the peonies start to bloom. I’ve heard “peony” is a Chinese flower whose name means “most beautiful.” To me, it is indeed the most beautiful of flowers, but I’m also struck by how short the blooming season lasts. Beauty wrapped up with sorrow, forever joined as in Keats’ poem. Enjoy!

(posted by Robin R.)