Winter by John Keats

Winter 

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

Writh'd not at passéd joy?

To know the change and feel it,

When there is none to heal it,

Nor numbéd sense to steal it,

Was never said in rhyme.

-by John Keats

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