Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked elipses ’gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
— William Shakespeare, “Sonnet 60”
Our time consumes like smoke, and posts away;
Nor can we treasure up a month or day:
The sand within the transitory glass
Doth haste, and so our silent minutes pass.
— Rowland Watkyns, quoted in L. Marshall et al. (Ed.), Rare Poems of the Seventeenth Century, 1936
“Time really is one big continuous cloth, no? We habitually cut out pieces of time to fit us, so we tend to fool ourselves into thinking that time is our size, but it really goes on and on.” — Haruki Murakami, A Wild Sheep Chase, 1982
“Time moves slowly, but passes quickly.” — Alice Walker, The Color Purple, 1982
You were the one
I wanted most
But time could not
be kept at bay.
The more it goes,
the more it’s gone —
the more it takes away.
— Lang Leav, Lullabies, 2014