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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529781" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode to Melancholy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come, let us set our careful breasts, <br>Like Philomel, against the thorn, <br>To aggravate the inward grief, <br>That makes her accents so forlorn; <br>The world has many cruel points, <br>Whereby our bosoms have been torn, <br>And there are dainty themes of grief, <br>In sadness to outlast the morn,— <br>True honor's dearth, affection's death, <br>Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn, <br>With all the piteous tales that tears <br>Have water'd since the world was born.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The world!—it is a wilderness, <br>Where tears are hung on every tree; <br>For thus my gloomy phantasy <br>Makes all things weep with me! <br>Come let us sit and watch the sky, <br>And fancy clouds, where no clouds be; <br>Grief is enough to blot the eye, <br>And make heaven black with misery. <br>Why should birds sing such merry notes, <br>Unless they were more blest than we? <br>No sorrow ever chokes their throats, <br>Except sweet nightingale; for she <br>Was born to pain our hearts the more <br>With her sad melody. <br>Why shines the Sun, except that he <br>Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide, <br>And pensive shades for Melancholy, <br>When all the earth is bright beside? <br>Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave, <br>Mirth shall not win us back again, <br>Whilst man is made of his own grave, <br>And fairest clouds but gilded rain!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I saw my mother in her shroud, <br>Her cheek was cold and very pale; <br>And ever since I've look'd on all <br>As creatures doom'd to fail! <br>Why do buds ope except to die? <br>Ay, let us watch the roses wither, <br>And think of our loves' cheeks; <br>And oh! how quickly time doth fly <br>To bring death's winter hither! <br>Minutes, hours, days, and weeks, <br>Months, years, and ages, shrink to nought; <br>An age past is but a thought!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ay, let us think of Him awhile <br>That, with a coffin for a boat, <br>Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat, <br>And for our table choose a tomb: <br>There's dark enough in any skull <br>To charge with black a raven plume; <br>And for the saddest funeral thoughts <br>A winding-sheet hath ample room, <br>Where Death, with his keen-pointed style, <br>Hath writ the common doom. <br>How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom, <br>And o'er the dead lets fall its dew, <br>As if in tears it wept for them, <br>The many human families <br>That sleep around its stem!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How cold the dead have made these stones, <br>With natural drops kept ever wet! <br>Lo! here the best—the worst—the world <br>Doth now remember or forget, <br>Are in one common ruin hurl'd, <br>And love and hate are calmly met; <br>The loveliest eyes that ever shone, <br>The fairest hands, and locks of jet. <br>Is't not enough to vex our souls, <br>And fill our eyes, that we have set <br>Our love upon a rose's leaf, <br>Our hearts upon a violet? <br>Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet; <br>And sometimes at their swift decay <br>Beforehand we must fret. <br>The roses bud and bloom, again; <br>But Love may haunt the grave of Love, <br>And watch the mould in vain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine, <br>And do not take my tears amiss; <br>For tears must flow to wash away <br>A thought that shows so stern as this: <br>Forgive, if somewhile I forget, <br>In woe to come, the present bliss; <br>As frighted Proserpine let fall <br>Her flowers at the sight of Dis, <br>Ev'n so the dark and bright will kiss. <br>The sunniest things throw sternest shade, <br>And there is ev'n a happiness <br>That makes the heart afraid!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now let us with a spell invoke <br>The full-orb'd moon to grieve our eyes; <br>Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud <br>Lapp'd all about her, let her rise <br>All pale and dim, as if from rest <br>The ghost of the late-buried sun <br>Had crept into the skies. <br>The Moon! she is the source of sighs, <br>The very face to make us sad; <br>If but to think in other times <br>The same calm quiet look she had, <br>As if the world held nothing base, <br>Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad; <br>The same fair light that shone in streams, <br>The fairy lamp that charmed the lad; <br>For so it is, with spent delights <br>She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All things are touch'd with Melancholy, <br>Born of the secret soul's mistrust, <br>To feel her fair ethereal wings <br>Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust; <br>Even the bright extremes of joy <br>Bring on conclusions of disgust, <br>Like the sweet blossoms of the May, <br>Whose fragrance ends in must. <br>O give her, then, her tribute just, <br>Her sighs and tears, and musings holy; <br>There is no music in the life <br>That sounds with idiot laughter solely; <br>There's not a string attuned to mirth, <br>But has its chord in Melancholy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Hood">Thomas Hood</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529781" data-title="Ode to Melancholy de Thomas Hood" data-description="Come, let us set our careful breasts, 
Like Philomel, against the thorn, 
To aggravate the inward grief, 
That makes her accents so forlorn; 
The world has many cruel points, 
Whereby our bosoms have been torn, 
And there are dainty themes of grie..."></div>
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