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The Seasons of Man

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Four seasons fill the measure of a man and each begins its swell of shell and gourd - O fair laurels of Spring do fleeting span core and bud and flower of youth endured. And golden Summer so brightly spangled from whence his labours the swollen vine strips, lest it not plucked lays withered and tangled only to bear a thirst upon his lips. For the reach of time rings the culling tree when Autumn its rich shedding off has cast - so begins the end, a fading glory in the long shadows of tender days past. Winter too, when the cold hoary bark wets and the pale mortal sun upon him sets. Written: May 2011 With special thanks to John Keats

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022




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