O days and hours, your work is this, To hold me from my proper place, A little while from his embrace, For fuller gain of after bliss:
That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet; And unto meeting, when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue,
For every grain of sand that runs, And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels, And all the courses of the suns.