Without music to decorate it, time is just a bunch of boring production deadlines or dates by which bills must be paid.

No preacher is listened to but time, which gives us the same train and turn of thought that elder people have in vain tried to put into our heads before.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.

Nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for I never think about them.

I’ve been on a calendar, but never on time.

Years are nothing to me—they should be nothing to you. Who asked you to count them or to consider them? In the world of wild nature, time is measured by seasons only—the bird does not know how old it is—the rose tree does not count its birthdays!

This is Year Zero.

My stern chase after time is, to borrow a simile from Tom Paine, like the race of a man with a wooden leg after a horse.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

Time rushes toward us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.

There is no work of human hands which time does not wear away and reduce to dust.

The appointed thing comes at the appointed time in the appointed way.