No, no, go not into the dark, nor leave

       plates of full, sealed-lipped, 

for its poisonous disease;

Nor suffer thy crimson lines to be loved

       By blade, a sharp-edged sword;

               Make not your head of spiraled thoughts,

       Nor let your tongue betray you

               Your mournful disposition, 

nor the pains of thy heart 

Adjoined in your sorrow's mysteries;

       Phantom nigh will come too swiftly,

               And flood the blazing hope of the soul.

But when the melancholy nigh shall drop

      Sudden from hell like a tearful pall,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

      And escape the darkness, out you shall crawl;

Then sate thy sorrow on the morning dew,

      Or on the rainbow of the salt-stained air,

               Or on the wealth of annular peonies;

Or if some rich anger shows,

      Imprison her fragile heart, and let her rave,

              feed deep, deep upon her unfeeling soul

She dwells with Anger—Anger that must die;

      And Jealousy, whose hand is ever at his hips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure near,

      Turning to poison while the bee-buzz drones:

Ay, in the very temple of my own

      never showing my Sovran Shine,

               no, never seeing the depths of my strenuous mind

My soul shalt taste the sadness of its might,

               And be among her cloudy trophies hung

A cry for help unheard