For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.
F. Scott FitzgeraldIt was too late - everything was too late. For years now he had dreamed the world away, basing his decisions upon emotions unstable as water.
F. Scott FitzgeraldPossibly it had occurred to him the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. [...] It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one.
F. Scott Fitzgerald