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 nigh
His 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 thresold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.