Quotes About Transience

However difficult death is for us to accept, we must... how would we learn to appreciate each moment if it were not precious? If life were forever?

A single night is stuffed with minutes, but they leak out, one by one.

Moments fly and if you don't fly with the moments, you remain on the ground apart from the moments while the moments are flying!

A moment in time is never dead.

I can't destroy things so beautiful.""Time will destroy them if you don't. Time destroys everything. But if you destroy them, it will mean something.

A moment in time has multiple moments.

...as if the world had become a giant train station in which everything was delayed until further notice.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may Old Time is still aflying And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying.

Celebrity was a long time in coming it will go away. Everything goes away.

This world is not a place where people can be together forever.

It's cute how I used to think this 'barely holding it together' feeling was temporary.

why shouldnt things be largely absurd, futile, and transitory? they are so, and we are so, and they and we go together.

Mean and mighty, rotting Together, have one dust.

Forever is not granted to any of us," the duchess said. "Even tomorrow is not granted as by right. Any of us can go at any moment.

There was no looking to the future. It was a moment without future.

Time was going altogether too fast. Too wonderfully and too fast.

But this flower comes in the form of a human; it must soon succumb to disease, atrophy, ruined skin, broken teeth, the unbearable frailty of mortality.

Art is only good at the moment it's done. After that it's dead. It's just so much dead shit. Artists are like people trying to hoard their shit.

When When it's over, it's over, and we don't know any of us, what happens then. So I try not to miss anything. I think, in my whole life, I have never missed The full moon or the slipper of its coming back. Or, a kiss. Well, yes, especially a kiss.

In Our Woods, Sometimes a Rare Music Every spring I hear the thrush singing in the glowing woods he is only passing through. His voice is deep, then he lifts it until it seems to fall from the sky. I am thrilled. I am grateful. Then, by the end of morning, he's gone, nothing but silence out of the tree where he rested for a night. And this I find acceptable. Not enough is a poor life. But too much is, well, too much. Imagine Verdi or Mahler every day, all day. It would exhaust anyone.

How wonderful to be who I am, made out of earth and water, my own thoughts, my own fingerprints - all that glorious, temporary stuff.

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!      What a task          to ask of anything, or anyone, yet it is ours,     and not by the century or the year, but by the hours. One

I know someone who kisses the way a flower opens, but more rapidly. Flowers are sweet. They have short, beatific lives. They offer much pleasure. There is nothing in the world that can be said against them. Sad, isn't it, that all they can kiss is the air. Yes, yes! We are the lucky ones.

Oh, to love what is lovely and will not last! What a task to ask of anything, or anyone, yet it is ours, and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.