Classic Poem

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.