Quotes About Ephemeral

I will not tell you our love story, because-like all real love stories-it will die with us,as it should.

our life is short, we don't live twice; the whirlwind will pick up the leaves and spin them, but then it will drop them and they will form a pile.

So much of what we read and write these days is disposable.

I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.

Life is but a day; A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way From a tree's summit.

moment of tangency a fleeting glimpse at what might have been.

I am a ghost. A wraith of atoms. A shadow.

The 2nd time leads to the 3rd, the 5th, the 7th time, I feel so alive, it won't last but it's alright

Thus the ideas, as well as children, of our youth, often die before us: and our minds represent to us those tombs to which we are approaching; where, though the brass and marble remain, yet the inscriptions are effaced by time, and the imagery moulders away.

Things of this world are in so constant a flux that nothing remains long in the same state.

Perishability in a photograph is important in a picture. If a photograph looks perishable we say, "Gee, I'm glad I have that moment."

But this long run is a misleading guide to current affairs. In the long run we are all dead.

A man is born. He dies.

Sex is ephemeral. Once it's over, it's over. Sex is not a lasting connection; it's only real while it's happening. It's not love.

Now I know for sure the soul is an evanescent thing and the body is its temporary container, because I saw it. I saw the body with the soul in it, I saw the body with the soul leaving, and I saw the body with the soul gone.

Flowers live, they are perfect and they affect us; they are God's glory, they make us know why we are alive and human, that we behold. They are beautiful, and then they die and rot and go back to the earth that gave birth to them.

Few are the memories which are more than a handful of dust, to be let run through the fingers.

You commit yourself completely to something and then you take your eyes off it for an instant and it's gone. Like it never was. Like you can't even see the evidence of the thing that was there, that you trusted your weight, your honor, your life, your heart to.

A shape was only a mask, to be discarded upon an instant.

The white hound who runs before them is gone, vanished, tattered and blown apart by the freshening breeze as if he had no more substance than a twist of smoke.

Anything we have, we are only borrowing. Anything. Any time.

I leave a lovely opalescent ribbon: I know this.

But happiness, fleeting by nature, is often savored only after it has flown.

all his ambitions were dust in his grave. It all came down to dust in the end.