Edward Young Quotes

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?

The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.

The bell that measures time is ringing

Time is the one thing I can't get back and can't give back to you.

Time flies never to be recalled.

But meanwhile time flies; it flies never to be regained.

If I could, I would stop the passage of time. But hour follows on hour, minute on minute, each second robbing me of a morsel of myself for the nothing of tomorrow. I shall never experience this moment again.

Sometime is that appointment, the final one to meet. Let's color all with love, for Time is naught but fleet.

For thogh we slepe, or wake, or rome, or ryde, Ay fleeth the tyme; it nyl no man abyde.

It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.

Time flies whether you are having fun or not.

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

In the sense that writing is to retrieve the past and stop the passing of time, all writing is about loss. It's not nostalgia in the sense of yearning to bring back the past, but recognition of the erosion of things as you live.

For every minute, the future is becoming the past.

The clock never stops, never stops, never waits. We're growing old. It's getting late.

Young poets bewail the passing of love; old poets, the passing of time. There is surprisingly little difference.

You never know how much time you have with someone.

Time passes irrevocably.

My own time is passing fast enough without some national game to help it along.

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

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

I am getting old, so I really don't like clocks.

When we look on the roses and gaiety of youth, the mournful idea of mortality is altogether alien to our thoughts. We have heard of it as a speculation and a tale, but nothing but experience can bring it home to us.

Days, pale slices between nights, they blend, not exactly alike, transparencies so lightly tinted that only stacked all together do they darken to a fatal shade.