I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow. - Algernon Charles Swinburne

Time and the Gods are at strife; ye dwell in the midst thereof,
Draining a little life from the barren breasts of love.

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.

For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows, and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.