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John Keats

In Drear-Nighted December


In 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 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

Writhed not at passéd joy?

The feel of not to feel it,

When there is none to heal it

Nor numbéd sense to steel it,

Was never said in rhyme.