


506 KEATS. 
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, 
Or on the rainbow of the salt-sand wave, 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; 
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 
Imprison 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 
Veiled 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. 


