IN a drear-nighted December, <br /> Too happy, happy tree, <br />Thy branches ne'er remember <br /> Their green felicity: <br />The north cannot undo them, <br />With a sleety whistle through them; <br />Nor frozen thawings glue them <br /> From budding at the prime. <br /> <br />In a drear-nighted December, <br /> Too happy, happy brook, <br />Thy bubblings ne'er remember <br /> Apollo's summer look; <br />But with a sweet forgetting, <br />They stay their crystal fretting, <br />Never, never petting <br /> About the frozen time. <br /> <br />Ah! would 'twere so with many <br /> A gentle girl and boy! <br />But were there ever any <br /> Writhed not at passed joy? <br />To know the change and feel it, <br />When there is none to heal it, <br />Nor numbed sense to steal it, <br /> Was never said in rhyme.<br /><br />John Keats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stanzas-3/
