four different times of the year. Four
them and you, my soul.
spring we drink casually, on the move
Excellent from a full bucket.
savoring this summer, vernal honey,
soul flies, its wings spreading out.
the fall of storms and bad weather
It is in a secluded hidden bay.
Now she is content to,
What looks through the mist on the course of things.
Let life go completely inaudible,
As the threshold flowing stream.
Then - winter. Impersonal and dead.
What! Human life is.
John Keats
Translation - S. Marshak
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