John Keats - Ode on Melancholy lyrics

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 d**h-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