Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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

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

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!

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

In time history must become a fairy tale—it will become again what it was in the beginning.

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.