A batallas de amor, campo de pluma. - Luis de Góngora

Mal te perdonarán a ti las horas;
las horas que limando están los días,
los días que royendo están los años.

Let merchants traverse seas and lands,
For silver mines and golden sands;
Whilst I beside some shadowy rill,
Just where its bubbling fountain swells,
Do sit and gather stones and shells,
And hear the tale the blackbird tells.

The hours will hardly forgive you, those hours that are wearing away the days, those days that are gnawing away the years.