It is why my days go Swift when by rights time should drag leadenly in punishment for barbarous futileness.
There is not time-space enough in any of the days sufficient to love the virile green and the murderous red and the sweet pale surprising purple in the sunset above the west desert: nor space to love the smell of a sudden August rain: nor the flaming delicate Idea of the poet John Keats.
While I'm starting to love each of those to its height of love-worthiness—the to-day is gone: and the to-morrow, which must see a new love-game started for each Thing, is come.
But while I say 'is come': it's gone.
So Swift go my days—oh Swift, Swift!
