Perceiv'st thou not the process of the year,
How the four seasons in four forms appear,
Resembling human life in ev'ry shape they wear?
_Spring_ first, like infancy, shoots out her head,
With milky juice requiring to be fed: ...
Proceeding onward whence the year began,
The _Summer_ grows adult, and ripens into man....
_Autumn_ succeeds, a sober, tepid age,
Not froze with fear, nor boiling into rage; ...
Last, _Winter_ creeps along with tardy pace,
Sour is his front, and furrowed is his face.
DRYDEN: _Of Pythagorean Phil. From, 15th Book Ovid's Metamorphoses,_
With thee conversing I forget all time,
All seasons, and their change,--all please alike.
MILTON: _Par. Lost,_ Bk. iv., Line 639.
Thus with the year
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine.
MILTON: _Par. Lost,_ Bk. iii., Line 40.