Judy Blume Quotes

While the flowers, pale and unreal in the moonlight, floated away upon the river; and thus do greater things that once were in our breasts, and near our hearts, flow from us to the eternal sea.

How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?

Time flies never to be recalled.

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

Time slips through our hands like grains of sand, never to return again.

Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!

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.

Nothing can be sadder or more profound than to see a thousand things for the first and last time.

And, as always happens, and happens far too soon, the strange and wonderful becomes a memory and a memory becomes a dream. Tomorrow it's gone.

I can't remember all the times I've tried to tell myself to hold on to these moments as they pass

That's the trouble with living things. Don't last very long. Kittens one day, old cats the next. And then just memories. And the memories fade and blend and smudge together.

Moments, when lost, can't be found again. They're just gone.

I wish my days could be washed away like the chalk lines of my days.

Neither can the wave that has passed by be recalled, nor the hour which has passed return again.

For every minute, the future is becoming the past.

You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by.

To feel today what one felt yesterday isn't to feel - it's to remember today what was felt yesterday, to be today's living corpse of what yesterday was lived and lost.

Swift speedy time, feathered with flying hours, Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.

The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

Time, you old gypsy man, will you not stay, put up your caravan just for one day?

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

Time never stood still for me. It went too fast; that was the bad thing about it!

Lovers come back. Styles come back. But time? It never comes back.

Time, memory, loss and love are my main artistic concerns, but time, among all of them, becomes the determinant.