                                      1816
                   FOUR SEASONS FILL THE MEASURE OF THE YEAR
                                 by John Keats

        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 honey'd 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.


                        THE END
