  In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy Tree, Thy branches ne’er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime. In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy Brook, Thy bubblings ne’er remember Apollo’s summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time. Ah, would ’twere so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writh’d not at passÈd joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbÈd sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme. J. Keats. |
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