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No, no, go not to Lethe, neither curve 

Wolf's-bane, tight-established, for its noxious wine; 

Nor endure thy pale temple to be kiss'd 

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; 

Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 

Nor let the creepy crawly, nor the demise moth be 

Your sad Psyche, nor the wool owl 

An accomplice in your distress' puzzles; 

For shade to shade will come too lazily, 

What's more, suffocate the attentive anguish of the soul.But when the despairing fit will fall 

Unexpected from paradise like a sobbing cloud, 

That encourages the hang headed blooms all, 

What's more, conceals the green slope in an April cover; 

At that point excess thy distress on a morning rose, 

Or on the other hand on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, 

Or on the other hand on the abundance of globed peonies; 

Or on the other hand if thy fancy woman some rich displeasure appears, 

Emprison her delicate hand, and let her rave, 

What's more, feed profound, profound upon her unmatched eyes. 

She stays with Beauty—Beauty that must pass on; 

What's more, Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 

Saying goodbye; and throbbing Pleasure near, 

Going to harm while the honey bee mouth tastes: 

Ay, in the very sanctuary of Delight 

Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran hallowed place, 

Despite the fact that seen of none spare him whose strenuous tongue 

Can blast Joy's grape against his sense of taste fine; 

His spirit shalt taste the trouble of her strength, 

Furthermore, be among her shady trophies hung.