The Human Seasons

Four seasons fill the measure of the year;
Four seasons are there in the mind of man.
He has his lusty spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He hath 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 forego his mortal nature.