Melancholy?

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.

to see: de Chirico. to read: Keats.
Thank you for the illuminated darkness.