She has her lusty Spring,when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span
She has her Summer,when luxuriously
Spring s honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves
to ruminate,and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven:quite coves
Her soul has in its Autumn,when her wings
She furls close;contented so to look
On mists in idleness-to let fair things
Pas by unheeded as a threshold brook.
She has her Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else she would forego her mortal nature.
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