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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.