Lord Byron Quotes

While the fates permit, live happily; life speeds on with hurried step, and with winged days the wheel of the headlong year is turned.

I've aged. 'Patagonia' has robbed me of a decade of my life.

Surely a long life must be somewhat tedious, since we are forced to call in so many trifling things to help rid us of our time, which will never return.

The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

With increasing age, dullness of mind and heart sets in.

Time moves on for everyone.

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.

Life is short, but the years are long.

One's relationship to time is complicated, and sometimes a day will drag on forever and sometimes it'll be over in a flash. When you look back, "I'm old," after 40 or 60 years, I can't believe I'm as old as I am.

We spend our lives dreaming of the future, not realizing that a little of it slips away every day.

To see the years touch ye gives me joy", he whispered, "for it means that ye live.

Years have passed and how I am anxiously watching the twilight of my childhood, quietly sinking, never to rise again.

For the first fourteen years for a rod they do while for the next as a pearl in the world they do shine. For the next trim beauty beginneth to swerve. For the next matrons or drudges they serve. For the next doth crave a staff for a stay. For the next a bier to fetch them away.

... it occurred to me that never again would he be seven years, one month and six days old, so we had better catch these moments while we can.

What did it matter if he existed for two or for twenty years? Happiness was the fact that he had existed.

As we get older we do not get any younger. Seasons return, and today I am fifty-five, And this time last year I was fifty-four, And this time next year I shall be sixty-two.

They would grow old. They would forget me.

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

In a year's time, he's a year older.

Like water spilt upon the ground--alas, Our little lives flow swiftly on and pass; Yet may they bring rich harvests and green grass!

Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy-moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Yet soon the hour is up--and we are gone.

Still on it creeps, Each little moment at another's heels, Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up Of such small parts as these, and men look back Worn and bewilder'd, wondering how it is.