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 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.