Ode on Melancholy

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous tear, Leaves at the bottom of a fountain’s mist; The red-leav’d sorrow, and the begging hand done.

But when the blood is warm, and is free to move, And the spirit alive, to the earth already, The stars, the dew upon the flower, the brood of air Without disturbing whilst she sings
Of the bee’s swift body of love, and glory And inspire the people to susurrus, and swell as they will,
Alas! not when dead they shall be still.

• John Keats