falling pieces

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist    
  Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;    
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist    
  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 globèd 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 shall taste the sadness of her might,    
    And be among her cloudy trophies hung.      
 
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink


- Keats