Ode to melancholy

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No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist

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

Even if you're really sad, absolutely do not drink from the waters of the Lethe river, which would make you lose your memory, and don't pull wolf's-bane plants from the ground in order to poison yourself or dull your pain.

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;

Don't let your weak self come into contact with a deadly nightshade plant, or drink wine from the mythical Queen of the Underworld.

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Make not your rosary of yew-berries,

Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be

Your mournful Psyche,

Don't make a rosary bead necklace from poisonous yew-berries, and don't become obsessed with symbols of death and decay like beetles or death-moths.

nor the downy owl

A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;

And don't join forces with the owl in order to intensify your mysterious sadness.

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For shade to shade will come too drowsily,

And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

Doing any of the above will bring too much darkness, and just numb you to your pain.

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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;

When a melancholy mood strikes you—like a sudden thunderstorm that makes the sky weep, pounds down on the flowers, and covers all the greenery with an April fog

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Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

Or on the wealth of globed peonies;

then feed your pain by gazing upon a rose that blooms only in the morning, or the rainbows over the sea, or bounteous peony flowers.

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Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

Or if your lover is really angry, just hold her soft hand and let her express that anger while you gaze deeply into her beautiful eyes.

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She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

Melancholy is inseparable from beauty, because beauty doesn't last forever.

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu;

And melancholy is also a part of Joy, who is always holding his hand up to his mouth, ready to wish people good bye

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and aching Pleasure nigh,

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

It exists within Pleasure, which is already turning to poison even as the bee sips its nectar.

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Ay, in the very temple of Delight

Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

Indeed, melancholy is contained within all of life's good things, like a queen dwelling, partially hidden, within a temple.

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Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;

She can only be seen by those who fully embrace joy and beauty—who pop the metaphorical fruit of joy into their discerning mouths.

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His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,

And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

The person who does so will taste Melancholy's sad power, and his soul will be kept by her as a symbol of her inevitable victory.