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 honied cud of youthful thoughts
he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has 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.
March 13, 1818 J. Keats
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