Quotes About Time

And man watches his ingenious clock and his makeshift calendar and ticks off the days, wondering where time goes. Cherishing life, metering it out for himself in bits and pieces, hoping thus to control it.

As rolling rivers never cease To pour their currents in the sea, So years succeeding years increase The ocean of eternity.

Much may be done in those little shreds and patches of time, which every day produces, and which most men throw away, but which nevertheless will make at the end of it, no small deduction from the little life of man. Cicero has termed them intercisiva tempora, and the ancients were not ignorant of their value; nay, it was not unusual with them either to compose or to dictate, while under the operation of rubbing after the bath.

It has been said that in human life there are moments worth ages...

Time is a seed, a sprout, a bud, A bloom, a flower, a wilting rose, Decay, disappearance, — a seed.

How do you approach the wheel of time — do you ride her stick your foot in her gears ignore her slow grinding write poems of her elusive movement sync yourself with her dance or cry out in the cold night of her injustice & indifference?

Every day a thread makes a skein in the year.

Eternity is a clock which says 'tick' in one century and 'tock' in the next.

Eternity is a clock without hands.

Time more than flies. It tramples. It loots. It mugs.

Two lengths has every day, Its absolute extend – And area superior By hope or heaven lent. Eternity will be Velocity, or pause, At fundamental signals From fundamental laws.

Time doesn't tick it doesn't tock — it flows relentless it is we who chop its water with our oars

We are only but guests at Time's tea party.

If Time is trying not to be found he is excellent and terrible at it — the days hide him so well — in our faces he is buried but not concealed he marks his territory...

Time is the only thief we can't get justice against.

Do not watch too closely cogs in the wheel of time. Observe their passing as the rhythm of a poem — not clicks of the abacus.

Time strode with the swiftness of spring blossoms.

We cannot see time directly but only catch glimpses of its reflections.

A maple that has yielded up its life Season on sugar-season—oh, what can be More tragic in its beauty than a maple: Swollen and scarred of trunk, and varicose From gashes in the bark, from too many wounds Of too many spiles that let out too much sap, From too much giving, giving for ninety years, For ninety Moons-of-Maple-Sugar-Making, For ninety Moons-of-Gathering-of-Wild-Rice, For ninety Moons-of-the-Falling-of-the-Leaves, For ninety Moons-of-the-Coming-of-the-Snow.

Not sure if it's Tuesday or just a second Monday.

It's only Tuesday and I'm already 95% done with this week.

Part of me is thinking: It's Wednesday already! And the other part of me is thinking: What do you mean it's only Wednesday?!

Nothing ruins a Friday like realizing it's only Wednesday.

Today is Wednesday. Which means that tomorrow is Pre-Friday, which means the next day is Friday. So today is basically Friday.