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How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
W.B. Yeats, The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats

The huge round lunar clock was a gristmill. Shake down all the grains of Time - the big grains of centuries, and the small grains of years, and the tiny grains of hours and minutes - and the clock pulverized them, slid Time silently out in all directions in a fine pollen, carried by cold winds to blanket the town like dust, everywhere. Spores from that clock lodged in your flesh to wrinkle it, to grow bones to monstrous size, to burst feet from shoes like turnips. Oh, how that great machine - dispensed Time in blowing weathers.
Ray Bradbury, Farewell Summer