Hilda Doolittle Quotes

A mass of dust, world's momentary slave, Is man, in state of our old Adam made, Soon born to die, soon flourishing to fade.

The brief span of our poor unhappy life to its final hour Is hastening on; and while we drink and call for gay wreaths, Perfumes, and young girls, old age creeps upon us, unperceived.

He thinks great folly, child,' said Aslan. "This world is bursting with life for these few days because the song with which I called it into life still hangs in the air and rumbles in the ground. It will not be so for long. But I cannot tell that to this old sinner, and I cannot comfort him either; he has made himself unable to hear my voice. If I spoke to him, he would hear only growlings and roarings. Oh, Adam's son, how cleverly you defend yourself against all that might do you good!

So we must love, while these moments are still called today, take part in the pain of this passion play, stretching our youth as we must, until we are ashes to dust, until time makes history of us.

I would have stayed forever within the garden of Re-mose's childhood, but time is a mother's enemy.

That flesh is but the glasse, which holds the dust That measures all our time; which also shall Be crumbled into dust.

We tried not to age, but time had its rage.

We tried not to age, but time had its rage.

We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.

In your mid-20s, you think you'll go on for eternity. Then a point comes where you realise that's not going to be the case.

People don't slip. Time catches up with them.

Robert, you are just a transient. I have seen them come and I have seen them go and I’ll be here long after you have gone.

Time moves on for everyone.

You can't halt time.

Time catches everyone. Sooner or later, it gets everybody.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting.

The body is mortal and the mind is mortal; both, being compounds, must die.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

Time bears away all things.

We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But how far away that future may be, there is no knowing.

What did a few ripples in the flesh matter when, all too soon, now or later, that flesh would be making its return journey to dust?

This was what it meant to be human, to know that time moved and all things changed.

Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.