The Human Seasons
There are four seasons in the mind of man:—
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
John Keats
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
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