Ode on Sad Thoughts

 No, no--go not to Lost Thought Stream, nor twist
   Wolf's bane, roots tight, for its wine with death tied;
 Nor let your pale brow thus be kissed
   By night's shade, that red grape of the death god's bride;
     Make not your prayer beads of yew-fruit,
   Nor let the click bug, nor the death moth, be
     Your sad Soul, nor the soft-downed owl
 Be mate to your grief's tale still mute;
   For shade to shade comes too worn out to see,
     And drown the wide-eyed ache of the soul.

 But when the fits of sad thoughts fall
   Quick from the sky like tears from clouds
 That help to grow the droop-head low blooms all
   And hide the green hills in a spring-month shroud--
 Then glut your grief on a dawn's rose,
   Or on the rain's arc of the salt sand-wave,
     Or on the wealth of blooms like spheres;
 Or if your girl some rich rage shows,
   Catch hold of her soft hand and let her rave,
     And feed deep, deep on her eyes sans peers.

 She dwells with Good Looks -- Good Looks that must die;
   And Joy, whose hand is all times at his lips
 To bid "So long"; and Good Times' ache is nigh,
   And turns to death's drink while the bee-mouth sips:
 Aye, in the church of Good Cheer, just so,
   Veiled Sad Thoughts has her own free shrine,
     Though seen of none save him whose hard-worked tongue
   Can burst Joy's grape on his mouth's roof fine;
 His soul shall taste what's sad in her strength's flow,
     And midst her cloud-like wreaths be hung.

                                -- John Keats