Four Seasons Fill the Measure of the Year

John Keats







Four seasons fill the measure of the year;

   There are four seasons in the mind of man:          

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

   Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously

    Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high

    Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings

    He furleth close; contented so to look

On mists in idleness- to let fair things

     Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,

    Or else he would forego his mortal nature.