Okay, Amos. How's this? I wrote it last night. It's got scansion, it's got rhyme, it's got blues, who could ask for anything more?

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist        
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;        
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist        
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;        
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,                 
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be        
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl        
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;        
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,        
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.        

Oh, yeah....

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 globèd 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.        

Mah woman's gone...

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.

Oh, yeah!