"Herseemed she scarce had been a day
One of God's choristers;
The wonder was not quite gone
From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
Had counted as ten years.
(To one it is ten years of years:
...Yet now, here in this place,
Surely she leaned o'er me--her hair
Fell all about my face...
Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.
The whole year sets apace.)
--excerpts from Dante Gabriel Rossetti's The Blessed Damozel
“Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age."
~John Dryden
