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

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

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

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

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

This is Year Zero.

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.

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!

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

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

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