Theocritus Quotes

But when to-morrow comes, yesterday's morrow will have been already spent: and lo! a fresh morrow will be for ever making away with our years, each just beyond our grasp.

Time goes too quickly. This is the advice that my mother should have given me from her hospital bed. Instead of vague, unknowable quips like "Be careful what you wish for," she should have told me time slides away on a hillside of loose shale and takes everything in its path - dreams, opportunities, hopes. And youth. It takes that fastest of all.

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?

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

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

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.

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

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

Oh, the years fly by, that's just natural.

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 it is wide. This too shall pass.

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.

Life is a frail moth flying Caught in the web of the years that pass.

Oh, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us!

Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.

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!

So passed the seasons then, so they pass now, and so they will pass in time to come, while we come and go like leaves of the tree that fall and are soon forgotten.

We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.

For every minute, the future is becoming the past.

The clock never stops, never stops, never waits. We're growing old. It's getting late.

Time flies never to be recalled.

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

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

People don't slip. Time catches up with them.