Famous ode by a famous Romantic Poet.
Until the early 19th Century, knowledge of the Four Temperaments (choleric, sanguine, phlegmatic and melancholic) was common in society.
The melancholic temperament in the human being was related to the colour blue (feeling 'blue' is an expression that still remains with us). Like all the temperaments, there are positive and negative aspects. The melancholic can lead to a deep spirituality and compassion or conversely a state of utter depression in its more self-focused aspect. The path to liberation from depression therefore lay in service to others where compassion for the suffering of fellow human beings could be practised in real life, and the personal self laid aside, since the melancholic soul well understands the nature of suffering. Such professions to serve others might have been those of a priest, carer, doctor, nurse etc. or even a writer and poet. Unfortunately today, our blind and 'cleverer' system of understanding, where we have laid aside the old wisdom, leads us to employ psychiatry and anti-depressants and even worse 'cures'. To have a melancholic disposition is actually a blessing rather than a curse providing it doesn't become a vehicle for self-indulgence.
Keats, in this ode, suggests that the negative aspects of melancholy cannot actually exist without the soul also being able to experience the mirror aspects of joy and enjoyment.
Ode on Melancholy
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 shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
John Keats
