Observations placeholder

John Keats – from Ode on Melancholy

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
Imprison 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.
Aye, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovereign 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.