济慈诗歌和书信选(英文版)27 Ode on Melancholy（打印版）

　　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 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.