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 © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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