46 lines
1.8 KiB
Plaintext
46 lines
1.8 KiB
Plaintext
1816
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ODE ON MELANCHOLY
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by John Keats
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I.
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No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
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Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
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Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
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By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
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Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
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Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
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Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
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A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
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For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
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And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
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II.
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But when the melancholy fit shall fall
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Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
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That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
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And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
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Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
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Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
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Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
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Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
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Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
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And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
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III.
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She dwells with Beauty- Beauty that must die;
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And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
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Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
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Turning to Poison while the bee-mouth sips:
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Ay, in the very temple of delight
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Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
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Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
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Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
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His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
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And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
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THE END
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