.
.
In a drear-nighted December
In a 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 a 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 passed Joy?
To know the change and feel
it,
When there is none to heal
it,
Nor numbed sense to steel
it,
Was never said in rhyme.
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