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I 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. II 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. III 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. |