Keats

For the last weekend before driving to Iowa (I can't stop boasting about it!), I'm reading Keats ... specifically, I'm reading the odes of 1819.  Keats works on developing a new stanza form in these, and I'm obviously interested in form  :)  but I do also enjoy everything else, such as his mastery of metaphor (a.k.a. magic) in this one:
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Ode on Melancholy

By John Keats

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist

 Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd

 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 globed 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.