Keats. 
T^OUR 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 nigh 
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. 
