Youth & Young Manhood

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.

Ode on Melancholy verse 3

John Keats (1795-1821) English poet

Sonnet xvii

O never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seem’d my flame to qualify!

As easy might I from myself depart,

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:

That is my home of love; if I have ranged,

Like him that travels I return again,

Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,

So that myself bring water for my stain.

Never believe, though in my nature reign’d

All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

That it could so prepost’rously be stain’d,

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:

For nothing this wide Universe I call,

Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) English playwright/poet