Senseless is the breast and cold
Which relenting love would fold;
Bloodless are the veins and chill
Which the pulse of pain did fill;
Every little living nerve
That from bitter words did swerve
Round the tortur'd lips and brow,
Are like sapless leaflets now
Frozen upon December's bough.

Rosalind and Helen, a modern eclogue, with other poems. (Ed., with notes, by H.B. Forman). (ed. 1819)