Mary Engelbreit Quotes

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

For every minute, the future is becoming the past.

Time flies never to be recalled.

Time comes to us softly, slowly. It sits beside us for a while. Then, long before we are ready, it moves on.

Time is a stream which glides smoothly on and is past before we know.

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?

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

Time and tide wait for no man.

Time flies and draws us with it. The moment in which I am speaking is already far from me.

Time takes it all, whether you want it to or not.

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

Time jumps. It leaps. It pours away like water through fingers.

Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years slip by, nor will piety give any stay to wrinkles and pressing old age and untamable death.

We see which way the stream of time doth run.

The hour-hand of life.

Knowing you are alive is watching on every side your generation's short time falling away as fast as rivers drop through air, and feeling it hit.

Time's horses gallop down the lessening hill.

The clock always ticks. There are times you don't hear it, and there are times that you do.

Time meanwhile is flying, flying beyond recall.

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.

Time flies, and what is past is done.

My obsession with time informs my poetry so completely it is hard for me to summarize it. We want time to pass, for new things to happen to us, we want to hold on to certain moments, we don't want our lives to end.

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

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