Thoughts must come naturally, like wild-flowers; they cannot be forced in a hot-bed, even although aided by the leaf-mould of your past.
In December people give no thought to the Past or the Future. They thing only of the Present.
God lead us past the setting of the sun To wizard islands, of august surprise; God make our blunders wise.
Repentance clothes in grass and flowers the grave in which the past is laid.
That parasite: the past.
The past is such a subtle thing. [But] in the end, nothing else exists, everything is made of the past, even the future.
I find that fact and fancy look alike across the years that link the past with the present.
Theirs is the present who can praise the past.
There is no Past, so long as Books shall live!
By the needle you shall draw the thread, and by that which is past, see how that which is to come will be drawne on.
It was an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy who was half-past three; And the way they played together Was beautiful to see.
The past is one evil less and one memory more.
How readily we wish time spent revoked, that we might try the ground again where once--through inexperience, as we now perceive--we missed that happiness we might have found!
Good-humor only teaches charms to last, Still makes new conquests and maintains the past.
The Saviour who flitted before the patriarchs through the fog of the old dispensation, and who spake in time past to the fathers by the prophets, articulate but unseen, is the same Saviour who, on the open heights of the Gospel, and in the abundant daylight of this New Testament, speaks to us. Still all along it is the same Jesus, and that Bible is from beginning to end all of it, the word of Christ.
The soul awakes ... between two dim eternities - the eternal past, the eternal future.
If we seek to keep the past alive, we end, I think, by distorting it.
from one minute to the next the present is merely an honorary past. It must be filled unceasingly anew to dissemble the curse it carries within itself; that is why Americans like speed, alcohol, thriller films and any sensational news: the demand for new things, and ever newer things, is feverish since nowhere will they rest.
Every time I start on a new book, I am a beginner again. I doubt myself, I grow discouraged, all the work accomplished in the past is as though it never was, my first drafts are so shapeless that it seems impossible to go on with the attempt at all, right up until the moment - always imperceptible, there, too, there is a break - when it is has become impossible not to finish it.
Gratitude is a humble emotion. It expresses itself in a thousand ways, from a sincere thank you to friend or stranger, to the mute, up-reaching acknowledgment to God--not for the gifts of this day only, but for the day itself; not for what we believe will be ours in the future, but for the bounty of the past.
Poetry is an act of distillation. It takes contingency samples, is selective. It telescopes time. It focuses what most often floods past us in a polite blur.
How the past perishes is how the future becomes.
Life is the enjoyment of emotion, derived from the past and aimed at the future.
The present is never the mark of our designs. We use both past and present as our means and instruments, but the future only as our object and aim.
The Old Guard dies but it never surrenders.
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