Poetry Friday


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.

  — John Keats