My shy hand shades a hermitage apart,—
O large enough for thee, and thy brief hours.
Life there is sweeter held than in God's heart,
Stiller than in the heavens of hollow flowers.
(...)
Thither your years may gather in from storm,
And Love, that sleepeth there, will keep thee warm.

— Wilfred Owen, My Shy Hand.

I love all things that pass: their briefness is
Music that fades on transient silences.
Winds, birds, and glittering leaves that flare and fall—
They fling delight across the world; they call
To rythmic-flashing limbs that rove and race...
A moment in the dawn for Youth's lit face;
A moment's passion, closing on the cry—
'O Beauty, born of lovely things that die!
 - Siegfried Sassoon, Vision.

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