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.

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity.

All writing is a form of prayer.

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.