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John Keats Poems

Modern Love

And what is love? It is a doll dress’d upFor idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;A thing of soft misnomers, so divineThat silly youth doth think to make itselfDivine by loving, and so goes onYawning and doting a whole summer long,Till
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The Human Seasons

Four 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 honeyed cud of youthful
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