With him," said I, " will take a pleasant charm;
It cannot be that aught will work him harm."
These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might:
Again I shake your hand,—friend Charles, good night.
September, 1816.


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.

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