Quotes About Time

Come I should like to hear you tell me what there is in yourself that is not just as wonderful, And I should like to hear the name of anything between Sunday morning and Saturday night that is not just as wonderful.

The law of the past can't be eluded, The law of the present and future cannot be eluded, The law of the living cannot be eluded

Nunca hubo más comienzo que ahora, ni más juventud o vejez que hay ahora; y nunca habrá más perfección que hay ahora, ni más cielo ni infierno que hay ahora.

O soul, thou pleasest me—I thee; Sailing these seas, or on the hills, or waking in the night, Thoughts, silent thoughts, of Time, and Space, and Death, like waters flowing...

Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost... ...Ample are time and space—ample the fields of Nature. The body, sluggish, aged, cold—the embers left from earlier fires, The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;

I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware I sit content, And if each and all be aware I sit content. One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself, And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years, I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.

The clock indicates the moment - but what does eternity indicate?

It is time to explain myself—let us stand up.

You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me" You lingering sparse leaves of me on winter-nearing boughs, And I some well-shorn tree of field or orchard-row; You tokens diminute and lorn—(not now the flush of May, or July clover-bloom—no grain of August now;) You pallid banner-staves—you pennants valueless—you overstay'd of time, Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest, The faithfulest—hardiest—last.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle

Beautiful Women Women sit or move to and fro, some old, some young,   The young are beautiful — but the old are more beautiful than the young.

I used to thrust papers, things, into my pockets: always had a lot of reading matter about my person somewhere: on ferries, cars, anywhere, I would read, read, read: it's a good habit to get into: have you ever noticed how most people absolutely waste most all their spare time?

Asszonyok ülnek vagy mennek – egyikÅ'jük öreg, másikuk fiatal, Szépek a fiatalok! de az öregek még szebbek!

Here I sit gossiping in the early candle-light of old age—and my book—casting backward glances over our travel'd road.

Do you suspect death? If I were to suspect death I should die now

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)

I used to thrust papers, things, into my pockets: always had a lot of reading matter about my person somewhere: on ferries, cars, anywhere, I would read, read, read: it's a good habit to get into: have you ever noticed how most people absolutely waste most all their spare time?

AS THE TIME DRAWS NIGH As the time draws nigh, glooming, a cloud, A dread beyond, of I know not what, darkens me. I shall go forth, I shall traverse The States awhile—but I cannot tell whither or how long; Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly cease. O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this? Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?… And yet it is enough, O soul! O soul! we have positively appear'd—that is enough.

This minute that comes to me over the past Decillions. There is no better than it And now. What behaves well In the past or behaves well To-day is not such a wonder. The wonder is always and Always how there can be A mean man or an infidel.

Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely.

Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be.

As Hegel put it, only when it is dark does the owl of Minerva begin its flight. Only in extinction is the collector comprehend.

From this story it may be seen what the nature of true storytelling is. The value of information does not survive the moment in which it was new. It lives only at that moment; it has to surrender to it completely and explain itself to it without losing any time. A story is different. It does not expend itself. It preserves and concentrates its strength and is capable of releasing it even after a long time.