Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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

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

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

I’ve been on a calendar, but never on time.

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.

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

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!

Without music to decorate it, time is just a bunch of boring production deadlines or dates by which bills must be paid.

Thou art not to learn the humors and tricks of that old bald cheater, time.

In time history must become a fairy tale—it will become again what it was in the beginning.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

The celestial machine is to be likened not to a divine organism but rather to a clockwork.