Unless I have some­thing of im­port to write, this week is hereby des­ig­nated as Adam Puts His Favorite Poems on His Website Week.

Ode to Melancholy — John Keats

No, no, go not to Lethe, nei­ther twist
Wolfs-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 shall taste the sad­ness of her might,
And be among her cloudy tro­phies hung.

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