Thy Branches in December

In [a] drear[y]-nighted December
Too happy, happy tree
Thy branches never 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[y]-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook
Thy bubblings never 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?

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

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

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
Was never said in rhyme
Was never said in rhyme
Was never said in rhyme