The Human Seasons
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 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.
Next 10 Poems
- John Keats : Think Not Of It, Sweet One
- John Keats : Think Of It Not, Sweet One
- John Keats : This Living Hand
- John Keats : To -
- John Keats : To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses
- John Keats : To A Young Lady Who Sent Me A Laurel Crown
- John Keats : To Ailsa Rock
- John Keats : To Autumn
- John Keats : To Byron
- John Keats : To Fanny
Previous 10 Poems
- John Keats : The Eve Of St. Agnes
- John Keats : The Dove
- John Keats : The Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone
- John Keats : Stanzas
- John Keats : Sonnet: On The Sonnet
- John Keats : Song Of The Indian Maid, From 'endymion'
- John Keats : Robin Hood
- John Keats : On The Sea
- John Keats : On The Grasshopper And Cricket
- John Keats : On Sitting Down To Read King Lear Once Again
