Happy Insensibility
John Keats, 1819

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 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.