The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled. - John Keats

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.

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.

Even now I am perhaps not speaking from myself: but from some character in whose soul I now live.