Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; <br /> There are four seasons in the mind of man: <br /> He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear <br /> Takes in all beauty with an easy span: <br /> He has his Summer, when luxuriously <br /> Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves <br /> To ruminate, and by such dreaming high <br /> Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves <br /> His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings <br /> He furleth close; contented so to look <br /> On mists in idleness--to let fair things <br /> Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. <br /> He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, <br /> Or else he would forego his mortal nature.<br /><br />John Keats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-human-seasons/
