The very face to make us sad;
If but to think in other times

The same calm quiet look she had,
As if the world held nothing base,
Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad;
The same fair light that shone in streams,
The fairy lamp that charm'd the lad;
For so it is, with spent delights

She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad.

All things are touch'd with Melancholy,
Born of the secret soul's mistrust,
To feel her fair ethereal wings

Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust ;
Even the bright extremes of joy

Bring on conclusions of disgust,
Like the sweet blossoms of the May,
Whose fragrance ends in must.

O give her, then, her tribute just,
Her sighs and tears, and musings holy!
There is no music in the life

That sounds with idiot laughter solely;
There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chords of Melancholy.