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
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto heaven: quiet
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to
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.'This sonnet and that to Ailsa Rock were first published, with the signature "I," in Leigh Hunt's Literary Pocket-Book; or,
Companion for the Lover of Nature and Art, -- the first number, that for 1819.'~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
H.
Buxton Forman,
Crowell publ. 1895.
