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NO, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist |
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| Wolfs-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, | 5 | |
| 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. | 10 | |
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But when the melancholy fit shall fall |
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| 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, | 15 | |
| 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. | 20 | |
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She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die; |
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| 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 | 25 | |
| 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 shall taste the sadness of her might, | ||
| And be among her cloudy trophies hung. | 30 |
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John Keats 1785–1821 Keats wrote this poem, as well as the other four odes, in the spring and autumn of 1819-- when he was 23 years old and 2 years before his death. He started out as an apothecary (藥劑師), but then decided to to a poet. Not including his juvenile work, his writing career spanned only four years. (Stillinger 1) Notes:
Stillinger, Jack, ed. Twentieth Century Interpretations of Keats's Odes. NY: Prentice Hall, 1968.
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