⁠And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
⁠Among the river sallows, borne aloft
⁠⁠Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
⁠Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
⁠The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
⁠⁠And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
⁠Wolfs-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 globèd 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.