TrofiArt

"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 globd 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 BeautyBeauty 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  
Veild Melancholy has her sovran shrine,  
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue  
Can burst Joys grape against his palate fine;  
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,  
And be among her cloudy trophies hung."

John Keats - Ode on Melancholy  
