Quotes About Time

I believe the future is only the past again, entered through another gate.

The past and present wilt — I have filled them, emptied them, And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

We shall not wait for tomorrow. The future is always beginning now...

To-day one half remembers With a sigh, In the yellow-mooned Septembers Long gone by, Many a solitary stroll With an overflowing soul...

Light of the moon Moves west, flowers' shadows Creep eastward.

And it is often in the past that the secret of the future lies!

The past is not a package one can lay away.

But a queer thing is — this is personal — however painful a thing has been when I look back it is no longer painful, or no more painful than music is. In fact it is just that.

Words of snow, which fell last year.

The past does not repeat itself but it often rhymes.

The past cannot return. If I have wounded you, forgive. If no more your breast will yearn To warm this straying heart, oh live The dreams that warm it yet, The memories it would not forget. There is no strife, all that has gone. There is no pain, the will is set. There are hours for thought to feed on, But none to keep alive regret. However sadly a heart may yearn, The past cannot, cannot return.

The flowers of the past are dead — but their wilted beauty and potpourri aroma enrich the present with memories.

Walking down the third aisle of the stack beneath tin-shaded lightbulbs, smelling the familiar library scents of must and dust and cinnamony, aging paper, he thought: When I die, I guess I'll go with a library card in one hand and an OVERDUE stamp in the other. Well, maybe there's worse ways.

Time kept passing without my consent.

The clock strikes one that just struck two – Some schism in the sum; A sorcerer from Genesis Has wrecked the pendulum.

Since I wrote you last, the summer is past and gone, and autumn with the sere and yellow leaf is already upon us. I never knew the time to pass so swiftly, it seems to me, as the past summer. I really think some one must have oiled his chariot wheels, for I don't recollect of hearing him pass, and I am sure I should if something had not prevented his chariot wheels from creaking as usual.

Youth is a budd Life is a flower Springs in a moment Dyes in an hour Time is as sand Flesh is as glass Sand quick is run Life soon doth pass

Sometimes I feel that life is passing me by, not slowly either, but with ropes of steam and spark-spattered wheels and a hoarse roar of power or terror. It's passing, yet I'm the one who is doing all the moving. I'm not the station, I'm not the stop; I'm the train. I'm the train.

But what minutes! Count them by sensation and not by calendars, and each moment is a day and the race a life.

My world has no time except the seasons and the perspectives of youth and old age.

minutes bloom hours flower seconds vine through the hands of time — days hustle weeks speed decades scatter in confetti'd years

There is no first or last in Forever. It is Centre there all the time.

I hear the heartthrob of time in my veins.

Forget that second-ticking clock. Time is the seed Waiting to fly from the milkweed pod. Time is the speed Of a dragonfly. Time is the weight of the ripened nut Eager to fall. Time is the rabbit's desperate scut. Time's dimensions are hidden in rocks, In wind and rain, but never in clocks.