Ode on Melancholy

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolfe’s-bane, eucalypytes nor siren ; For to so many delights it is much More that twilight held out like a hand.

Than fading in stormy nights, to drown, In silence I draw back to fields’s edge. Where calmness is found—to be blissful, Black shades sighing ‘neath the trees.

Without one thought of darkness, the long prayer, A line, close the door, in severest eyes.

— Ode on Melancholy

• John Keats