Four seasons fill the measure of the year
Four seasons are there in the mind of man
He hath his lusty spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span
He hath his summer, when luxuriously
He chews the honied cub of fair spring’s thoughts,
Until, in his soul dissolv’d, they become
Party of himself. He hath his autumn ports
And havens of repose, when his tired wings
Are folded up, he content to looks
on mists in idleness, To let fair things
pass unheeded as a threshold brook.
He hath his winter too of pale misfeature
Or else he would forget his mortal nature.
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