Laurel crowned Horatius True, how true the saying, Swift as wind flies over us Time devouring, slaying.

Six hours in sleep is enough for youth and age. Perhaps seven for the lazy, but we allow eight to no one.

Six years--six little years--six drops of time.

By-and-by has no end.

Backward, flow backward, O full tide of years! I am so weary of toil and of tears, Toil without recompense--tears all in vain, Take them and give me my childhood again. I have grown weary of dust and decay, Weary of sowing for others to reap; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Backward, turn backward, then time in your flight; Make me a child again just for tonight. Mother, come back from the echoeless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore.

The passage of time is simply an illusion created by our brains.

Why slander we the times? What crimes Have days and years, that we Thus charge them with iniquity? If we would rightly scan, It's not the times are bad, but man.

Wherever anything lives, there is, open somewhere, a register in which time is being inscribed.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

Say not thou, What is the cause that the former days were better than these? for thou dost not inquire wisely concerning this.

My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent without hope.

He answered and said unto them, When it is evening, ye say, It will be fair weather: for the sky is red. And in the morning, It will be foul weather to day: for the sky is red and lowring. O ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky; but can ye not discern the signs of the times?

For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night.

For all our days are passed away in thy wrath: we spend our years as a tale that is told.

For out allotted time is the passing of a shadow, and there is no return from our death, because it is sealed up and no one turns back.

Time flies and draws us with it. The moment in which I am speaking is already far from me.

What's not destroyed by Time's devouring hand?

Think not thy time short in this world, since the world itself is not long. The created world is but a small parenthesis in eternity, and a short interposition, for a time, between such a state of duration as was before it and may be after it.