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:
Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven:
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature."
~ John Keats, (1795–1821)