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 |
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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 |
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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
John Keats
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