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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

This is Year Zero.

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

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