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miércoles, 30 de abril de 2014

Ode On Melancholy

Ode on Melancholy

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
       Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
       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 globed 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.
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:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
       Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
               Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
       Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
               And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Stanza one

Both pictures are rather dark, the first impression of the poem is melancholy,  and to show this feeling I choose obscure pictures.

 No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist.
  •    River of unmindfulness.
  •  Where all those who drank from it experienced complete forgetfulness.












Your  mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
  •    Mourn
  •    Wanted to express the pain with this picture.















Stanza two

 Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,




And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
Hypnotic, you feed on her eyes.









Stanza three

 And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips

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