Human Seasons, The
by: John Keats (1795 - 1821)
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 forgo his mortal nature.
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Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone, The
Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast As Thou Art
Fancy
When I Have Fears That I May Ceasa To Be
Where Be You Going, you Devon Maid?
When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be
To Autumn
Terror of Death, The
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