Ode to Melancholy

The sadness of the sleeping hours; who could endure?
When past are the splendid powers, prophets of poetry gone;
When to night turns the evening's spell, who could revel alone,
When soon rings the midnight bell, bereft of drunken lure?

For is friendship not a lost thing; found in chance's flight?
And alike the gladness age does bring, best had in bitter taste;
Won't weary mouths that sweetness favour, turn this wine to waste,
Lose in loss a thing to savour, pass a pleasure of deep delight?

And is not love feather-light too; once to love and then to lose?
Does dying light not leave us rue; how ashes follow a flaming fire,
And how cold is that empty hall; how silent its echoing desire?
Yet in silence squall; why would you care of silence abuse?

Why abuse the glance of the moon, the sparkling stars of ice?
Sooner, sooner, play a stranger tune! chime hollow and sad,
And when asleep, sooner plot aloud; on the morn to wake up glad!
For is this hue not fair and proud; does this sadness not suffice?