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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

The past grows gradually around one, like a placenta for dying.

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.

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

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