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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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.

They say, “We only have the life of this world. We die and we live, and nothing destroys us but time.” Yet, not true knowledge have they of this—only belief.

Time is a veil interposed between God and ourselves, as our eyelid is between our eye and the light.

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

Those who make the worst use of their time are the first to complain of its brevity.

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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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!

There is no work of human hands which time does not wear away and reduce to dust.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.