Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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

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

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

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.

Time rushes toward us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.

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

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!

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

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

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

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.

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.