My stern chase after time is, to borrow a simile from Tom Paine, like the race of a man with a wooden leg after a horse.

A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.

Nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for I never think about them.

Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.

No preacher is listened to but time, which gives us the same train and turn of thought that elder people have in vain tried to put into our heads before.

The appointed thing comes at the appointed time in the appointed way.

Years are nothing to me—they should be nothing to you. Who asked you to count them or to consider them? In the world of wild nature, time is measured by seasons only—the bird does not know how old it is—the rose tree does not count its birthdays!

Time, when it is left to itself and no definite demands are made on it, cannot be trusted to move at any recognized pace. Usually it loiters, but just when one has come to count upon its slowness, it may suddenly break into a wild irrational gallop.

If both what is before and what is after are in this same “now,” things which happened ten thousand years ago would be simultaneous with what has happened today, and nothing would be before or after anything else.

Time’s violence rends the soul; by the rent eternity enters.

I look for the end of the future, but it never ceases to arrive.