Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that's the stuff life is made of. Suspect each moment, for it is a thief, tiptoeing away with more than it brings.
On the human imagination, events produce the effects of time. Thus, he who has travelled far and seen much, is apt to fancy that he has lived long; and the history that most abounds in important incidents, soonest assumes the aspect of antiquity.
Time is of your own making; Its clock ticks in your head. The moment you stop thought Time too stops dead.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
Nothing keeps. There is one law in the universe: NOW.
Time is a dream ... a destroying dream; It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas; It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls.
Time is a face on the water.
Time is but a phantom dagger That motion lifts to slay itself.
In the dark attics of our minds, all times mingle.
E'en Beauty mourns in her decaying bower, That Time upon her angel brow should set His crooked autograph, and mar the jet Of glossy locks. Lo! how her chaplet green, The hoar frost and the canker worm destroy. Decay's dull film obscures those matchless eyes.
Time is the measurer of all things, but is itself immeasurable, and the grand discloser of all things, but is itself undisclosed.
Time ... thou ceaseless lackey to eternity.
Time overlaps itself. A breath breathed from a passing breeze is not the whole wind, neither is it just the last of what has passed and the first of what will come, but is more--let me see--more like a single point plucked on a single strand of a vast spider web of winds, setting the whole scene atingle. That way; it overlaps ... as prehistoric ferns grow from bathtub planters.
A clock is a little machine that shuts us out from the wonder of time.
Time ripens the substance of a life as the seasons mellow and perfect its fruits. The best apples fall latest and keep longest.
There is a balance, a kind of standoff between the time continuum and the human entity, our frail bundle of soma and psyche. We eventually succumb to time, it's true, but time depends on us. We carry it in our muscles and genes, pass it on to the next set of time-factoring creatures, our brown-eyed daughters and jug-eared sons, or how would the world keep going. Never mind the time theorists, the cesium devices that measure the life and death of the smallest silvery trillionth of a second.... We were the only crucial clocks, our minds and bodies, way stations for the distribution of time.
Man hath no Heaven and Time's coast is chartless. He speeds; we pass away!
For me, the problem of time is linked up with that of death, with the thought that we inevitably draw closer and closer to it, with the horror of decay.
Well, we think that time "passes," flows past us, but what if it is we who move forward, from past to future, always discovering the new? It would be a little like reading a book, you see. The book is all there, all at once, between its covers. But if you want to read the story and understand it, you must begin with the first page, and go forward, always in order. So the universe would be a very great book, and we would be very small readers.
One day some as yet unborn scholar will recognize in the clock the machine that has tamed the wilds.
There is nothing fatherly about time and what it does to us, either.
Time, you'll be pleased to know--and since one must start somewhere--was created in creation. The question What was there before creation? is meaningless. Time is a property of creation, therefore before creation there was no before creation.
All substances the cunning chemist Time Melts down into that liquor of my life.
Only time conquers time and its burdens.
The wings of Time are black and white, Pied with morning and with night.
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