The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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.

 Do not lessen the time of following desire, for the wasting of time is an abomination to the spirit.

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

We wish away whole years, and travel through time as through a country filled with many wild and empty wastes, which we would fain hurry over, that we may arrive at those several little settlements or imaginary points of rest which are dispersed up and down in it.

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

We should not say that one man’s hour is worth another man’s hour, but rather that one man during an hour is worth just as much as another man during an hour. Time is everything, man is nothing; he is, at most, time’s carcass.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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.

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!

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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