Quotes About Transience

Es trágica la entraña del adiós, como de todo acontecer en que es notorio el tiempo.

Moartea (ori pomenirea ei) îi face pe oameni preÈ›ioÈ™i È™i patetici. ?i condiÈ›ia lor de fantome te impresioneaz?; orice fapt? pe care o s?vârÈ™esc ar putea s? fie ultima. Nu exist? chip care s? nu se risipeasc? precum chipurile din vis. Pentru muritori, totul se afl? sub pecetea irecuperabilului È™i întâmpl?torului.

Timpul nu reface ceea ce pierdem, veÈ™nicia p?streaz? totul pentru slava ei sau pentru a-l încredinÈ›a focului mistuitor.

Things become duplicated in Tlön; they also tend to become effaced and lose their details when they are forgotten. A classic example is the doorway which survived so long as it was visited by a beggar and disappeared at his death.

One great thing about growing old is that nothing is going to lead to anything. Everything is of the moment.

You can't say life is useless because it ends in the grave.

Every moment is utterly unique and will not be continued in eternity. This fact gives life its poignancy and should concentrate your attention on what you are experiencing now.

Minden szenvedés titkos oka - írta - maga a halandóság, amely egyúttal az élet elsÅ'dleges feltételét is alkotja. Ha igent akarunk mondani az èletre, akkor nem tagadhatjuk meg annak végességét sem.

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.

Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;Breath's a ware that will not keep.Up, lad: when the journey's overThere'll be time enough to sleep.

June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter's cold...

Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay And early though the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose.

The year might age, and cloudy The lessening day might close, But air of other summers Breathed from beyond the snows, And I had hope of those. They came and were and are not And come no more anew; And all the years and seasons That ever can ensue Must now be worse and few. So here's an end of roaming On eves when autumn nighs: The ear too fondly listens For summer's parting sighs, And then the heart replies.

From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I. Now--for a breath I tarry Nor yet disperse apart-- Take my hand quick and tell me, What have you in your heart. Speak now, and I will answer; How shall I help you, say; Ere to the wind's twelve quarters I take my endless way.

I Hoed and trenched and weeded, And took the flowers to fair: I brought them home unheeded; The hue was not the wear. So up and down I sow them For lads like me to find, When I shall lie below them, A dead man out of mind. Some seed the birds devour, And some the season mars, But here and there will flower The solitary stars, And fields will yearly bear them As light-leaved spring comes on, And luckless lads will wear them When I am dead and gone.

June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter's cold, The lad that hopes for heaven Shall fill his mouth with mould.

Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.

Death will obliterate everything soon

Especially good spirits might be brought to the Land of Darkness only briefly or not at all.

And yet all things, even strange and wondrous ones, lose their luster with time. They always do.

Roses would be annoying weeds if the blooms never withered and died. Beauty resides in the knowledge that it doesn't last.

And if beauty is in the ephemeral, what about the beautiful things you can't have? Perhaps that kind of beauty does last forever.

What did it matter? We are dying while we are living. We are old even when we're young. We are clinging to life even as we resign ourselves to leaving it.

The valley below, the rock underfoot, and the mountain before him will outlast him. On the scale of this land, he is nothing; words like "shame" and "guilt" mean little here; and a reputation is no more than a fleeting blue flame, an evanescent spirit in a brandy glass.