The Human Seasons

BY 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 honeyed 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.