The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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.

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

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

If both what is before and what is after are in this same “now,” things which happened ten thousand years ago would be simultaneous with what has happened today, and nothing would be before or after anything else.

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.

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.

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