All the time in the world - his life and hers. But for an instant as he kissed her he knew that though he search through eternity he could never recapture those lost April hours. He might press her close now till the muscles knotted on his arms - she was something desirable and rare that he had fought for and made his own - but never again an intangible whisper in the dusk, or on the breeze of night. . . .
Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The sensible thing”