William Butler Yeats Quotes

I was ripe ten years ago. Now I’m merely preserved, and before long I’ll be buried back in the orchard with the other pits.” -Amanda to Jack

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

I have lived long enough. My way of life is to fall into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have.

But a day must come when the fire of youth will be quenched in my veins, when winter will dwell in my heart, when his snow flakes will whiten my locks, and his mists will dim my eyes. Then my friends will lie in their lonely grave, and I alone will remain like a solitary stalk forgotten by the reaper.

Time in his aging overtakes all things alike.

I'm getting old, that's the thing! What's in me now won't be there anymore.

The years thunder by, The dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed.

There is nothing like it for morale to be reminded that the years are passing - ever more quickly - and that bits are dropping off the ancient frame. But it is nice to be remembered at all.

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

Age wins and one must learn to grow old.

Age carries all things away, even the mind.

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

Each great athlete must some day bow to that perennial old champion, Father Time, even as I, for Time eventually wins.

Time is a great conference planning our end, and youth is only the past putting a leg forward.

Nobody stays young forever.

Of course, no one wants to get older.

No one looks forward to getting old do they?

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.

Even death itself sometimes fails to bring the dignity and serenity which one would fain associate with old age.

Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.

I can't believe I'm 29. Where did the years go? Why did the years go?

My body, now close to fifty years of age, has become an old tree that bears bitter peaches, a snail which has lost its shell, a bagworm separated from its bag; it drifts with the winds and clouds that know no destination. Morning and night I have eaten traveler's fare, and have held out for alms a pilgrim's wallet.