Taken on February 14, 2012
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 nigh
His nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in it 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 forgo his mortal nature.
—John Keats
English Romantic Writers
edited by David Perkins
02.14.2024: I’m glad I didn’t have to go out and get a photo today. It was a cold and windy day.