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.