The Human Seasons

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 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.

by John Keats

Comments (7)

Such a fine poem by Richard Wilbur.....
Beautiful poem shared. Nicely written.
Thank you, Robert, for introducing me to this great poem! Vivid and fresh description. No question what he’s writing about. And notice, poets, how the rhyme fits in so logically and easily; I missed it at first. Cool! -GK
It will be a poor fun having a fire device, and no chance to show its mettle..........very well crafted to mean a lot......... thanks for sharing
Haunting expression. Beautiful poem by Richard Wilbur. Thanks to Robert Fish for submission.
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