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't were 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.
John Keats.
BALLADE OF THE WINTER FIRESIDE.
An ingle-blaze and a steaming jug;
A lamp and a lazy book;
And, deep in a doubled, downy rug
Your feet to the warmest nook.
And wherever the eye may crook,
A print or a tumbled tome—
For the kettle sings on the blackened hook,
And hey! for the sweets of home!
What though the traveller toil and tug
Where sleety drifts be shook?
What though i' the churchyard graves be dug;
And sweethearts be forsook?
A hearth, and a careful cook,
And cares may go or come!
For the kettle sings on the blackened hook,
And hey! for the sweets of home!
But—curtains down and an elbow hug;
A maid that comes to a look;
A boy to carry a rimy log
From over the frozen brook—
And, a fig for the cawing rook,
Or ghosts in the ruddy gloam!
For the kettle sings on the blackened hook,
And hey! for the sweets of home!