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John Keats


Four seasons fill the measure of the year;

There are four seasons in the mind of a 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 honied cud of youthful thought he loves

To ruminate, and by such dreaming nigh

His 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 forgo his mortal nature.


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