Quotes About Transience

I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love's frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed

How frail the bloom, how short the stay That terminates us all! Today we flourish green and gay, Like leaves tomorrow fall.

What they write today you'll eat your chips from tomorrow. Remember that through your tears.

It struck Rosie that nowadays everyone lived the way gay men like Kraft had always lived; in brief collisions, restless, among lovers whom there was no way to fix except for as long as you could hold their hands. And then what? And then remember them, and keep in touch: friends.

Yesternight the sun went hence,And yet is here today.

What if this present were the world's last night?

But think that weAre but turn'd aside to sleep.

My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.

I don't want to die, obviously, but really, the wonder of life is amplified by the fact that it ends.

Miserable mortals who like leaves at one moment flame with life eating the produce of the land and at another moment weakly perish.

My life flies away like a dream: Why should I stay behind?

Life was so short; so many beautiful things slipped away.

June falls asleep upon her bier of flowers; In vain are dewdrops sprinkled o'er her, In vain would fond winds fan her back to life, Her hours are numbered on the floral dial.

The road to the inn is much better than the stay.

Everything in life, I have come to conclude, is about 15 minutes too long. Except for summer - summer never begins early enough and always ends too soon.

The essence of what makes life beautiful is the fact that it can go away.

Life is short and we have scarcely begun to live when we are called to die.

One day you will disappear on a funeral pyre - just into nothingness, as smoke.

... there are few things that can reconcile us fully to our parting with a world of which the longest life can see so little and whose beauties have so extraordinary a variety.

Whatever lives, lives to die in sorrow. We engage our hearts, and grasp after the things of this world, only to undergo the pang of losing them.

To think that so much comes to so little, to think that life is really short.

There is no complete life. There are only fragments. We are born to have nothing, to have it pour through our hands. And yet, this pouring, this flood of encounters, struggles, dreams...

The apparent ease of California life is an illusion, and those who believe the illusion will live here in only the most temporary way.

The flowers of life are but illusions. How many fade away and leave no trace.