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.