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/sonnet-the-human-seasons/
