Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/80

44 Of secrecy, the violet: what strange powers

Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great,

When in an Eye thou art, alive with fate!

a week could be an age, and we

Felt parting and warm meeting every week;

Then one poor year a thousand years would be,

The flush of welcome ever on the cheek:

So could we live long life in little space,

So time itself would be annihilate,

So a day's journey in oblivious haze

To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate.

O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!

To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant!

In little time a host of joys to bind,

And keep our souls in one eternal pant!

This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught

Me how to harbor such a happy thought.

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.