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Poem by John Keats


The Human Seasons


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 honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
     Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
     He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idlenessto 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.



John Keats


John Keats's other poems:
  1. On Receiving a Laurel Crown from Leigh Hunt
  2. Bards of Passion and of Mirth
  3. On Fame
  4. This Living Hand
  5. To Fanny


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