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 honeyed 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 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.