Death does not concern us, because as long as we exist, death is not here. And when it does come, we no longer exist.
O fairest flower! no sooner blown but blasted, Soft silken primrose fading timelessly.
I am stardust gathered fleetingly into form.
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Never has the future become so rapidly the past.
We live in a moment of history where change is so speeded up that we begin to see the present only when it is already disappearing.
Life has puffed and blown itself into a summer day, and clouds and spring billow over the heavens as if calendars were a listing of mathematical errors.
I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
Poems On Time The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough. Time is a wealth of change, but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth. Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.
No one loses any other life than the one he now lives, nor does one live any other life than that which he will lose.
It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that is purloined.
A human being is only breath and shadow.
With time, art developed Bip, my alter ego. He was not only a lion tamer or a street musician but a soldier revealing the tragedy of ephemeral life.
When we hear people talk of riches, honors and amusements of the world, let us remember that all things have an end, and let us then say: My God, I wish for You alone and nothing more.
I, for instance, regard any particular man as finite, as one who has had a beginning and who will have an end. He has been born, and he is going to die. In the meantime, he has a body that roots him to this time and this place.
Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring; That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
The partition separating life from death is so tenuous. The unbelievable fragility of our organism suggests a vision on a screen: a kind of mist condenses itself into a human shape, lasts a moment and scatters.
Today, tomorrow," she said. "A day is nothing. A day is just a match you strike after the ten thousand matches before it have gone out.
Nothing before you counts,” he said. “And I can’t even imagine an after.
As for me, I'm just passin' through this planet.
Tomorrow exists even though I may not exist in it.
If this glorious birth to death hassle is the only hassle we are ever to have ..if our grand exhilarating fight of life is such a tragically short little scrap anyway,compared to the eons of rounds before and after-then why should one want to relinquish even a few precious seconds of it?
The man who lies asleep will never waken fame, and his desire and all his life drift past him like a dream, and the traces of his memory fade from time like smoke in air, or ripples on a stream.
The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
Beautiful things never last. That’s why fireflies flash.
