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
   Writh'd not of passed joy?
The feel of not to feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbed sense to steel it,
   Was never said in rhyme.
In drear nighted December

by John Keats, 1817
