Emily Dickinson Quotes

Nothing is forever in the Theatre. Whatever it is, it's here, it flares up, burns hot and then its gone.

But then it passed, as all things do.

The morning Sunne never lasts a day.

This greatest mortal consolation, which we derive from the transitoriness of all things-from the right of saying, in every conjuncture, "This, too, will pass away.

All things fade and quickly turn to myth.

The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.

In the beginning, there was silence. And out of the silence came the sound. The sound is not here.

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

So much of my work has been about disappearing.

Everything changes. The more I try to hold on to the moment, the more it slips through my fingers.

The hardest thing for me is the sense of impermanence. All passes; nothing returns.

Nothing lasts. Not even a great sorrow.

Sunrise doesn't last all morning, a cloudburst doesn't last all day, seems my love is up and has left you with no warning. It's not always going to be this grey. All things must pass, all things must pass away.

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

Things pass us by. Nobody can catch them. That's the way we live our lives.

Every moment was a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality.

Things always seem to glide away. They come to you, stay a moment, then leave again.

Nothing comes back. The eye sees for a moment, the ear hears, but look, now it is gone.

At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

How those fires burned that are no longer, how the weather worsened, how the shadow of the seagull vanished without a trace. Was it the end of a season, the end of a life? Was it so long ago it seems it might never have been? What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? (from "No Words Can Describe It")

She would fain have caught at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed it to return, and give her back what she had too little valued while it was yet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed! How unsubstantial, and flickering, and flitting! It was as if from some aerial belfry, high up above the stir and jar of the earth, there was a bell continually tolling, ‘All are shadows!—all are passing!—all is past!