Ralph Hodgson Quotes

But where are the snows of yester year?

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")

This is the time to remember cause it will not last forever. These are the days to hold onto cause we won't although we'll want to.

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?

I remember as a kid having a balloon and accidentally letting the string go and watching it just float off and into the sky until it disappeared. And there's something about that, even, that feels very much like what life is, you know, that it's fleeting, and it's temporal.

The notion of time bothers me. You look at thirty-year-old photographs and realize how the time has passed.

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

The years as they pass plunder us of one thing after another.

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.

I would have stayed forever within the garden of Re-mose's childhood, but time is a mother's enemy.

Time wastes too fast : every letter I trace tells me with what rapidity Life follows my pen ; the days and hours of it, more precious, my dear Jenny! than the rubies about thy neck, are flying over our heads like light clouds of a windy day, never to return more -- every thing presses on -- whilst thou are twisting that lock, -- see! it grows grey ; and every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, and every absence which follows it, are preludes to that eternal separation which we are shortly to make!

It’s difficult to ever go back to the same places or people. You turn away, even for a moment, and when you turn back around, everything’s changed.

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.

O Time and change! - with hair as gray as was my sire's that winter day, how strange it seems, with so much gone of life and love, to still live on!

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

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

Time goes, you say? Ah, no! alas, time stays, we go.

I long for the time of no more departures. It has something to do with age, probably.

Time doesn't go. Time stays. We go.

Time flies never to be recalled.

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

Time itself comes in drops.

Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.