Sonnet: 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.