I don't mind an extra hour or two of daylight, but when we turn the clocks forward at the start of summer's lease, I can't help but feel, like Hamlet, that time is out of joint. I'm relieved when they go back, though it plunges our evening walk into darkness. Oddly, daylight saving seems to chew up the hours more rapidly, and to put us even more at odds with the turning earth than our curious lives have already made us. No-one knows better than Shakespeare how time makes fools of us. Here's a sonnet, (aptly, it's number 12) where the clock is the harbinger of our hastening doom.
When I do count the clock that tells the time,And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;When I behold the violet past prime,And sable curls, all silver'd o'er with white;When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;Then of thy beauty do I question make,That thou among the wastes of time must go,Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,And die as fast as they see others grow;And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defenceSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.