Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of Man:
He hath his lusty Spring, when Fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
He chews the honied cud of fair Spring thoughts,
Till in his Soul, dissolv’d, they come to be
Part of himself: He hath his Autumn Ports
And havens of repose, when his tired wings
Are folded up, and he content 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
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;There are four seasons in the mind of Man:He hath his lusty Spring, when Fancy clearTakes in all beauty with an easy span:He has his Summer, when luxuriouslyHe chews the honied cud of fair Spring thoughts,Till in his Soul, dissolv’d, they come to bePart of himself: He hath his Autumn PortsAnd havens of repose, when his tired wingsAre folded up, and he content to lookOn Mists in idleness—to let fair thingsPass by unheeded as a threshold brook.He has his winter too of Pale misfeature
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