17 quotes
Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.
The Golden Legend (1851)
Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others.
The Courtship of Miles Standish (1858)
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time
Voices of the Night (1839)
The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.
Time, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry.
Hyperion (1839)
Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Voices of the Night (1839)
Taste the joy
That springs from labor.
For age is opportunity no less
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
Morituri Salutamus (1875)
Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.
Hyperion (1839)
And the bright faces of my young companions
Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more.
The Spanish Student (1843)
The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary,
And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.
Whatever poet, orator, or sage
May say of it, old age is still old age.
How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow
Into the arctic regions of our lives,
Where little else than life itself survives.
From labor there shall come forth rest.
The course of my long life hath reached at last,
In fragile bark o'er a tempestuous sea,
The common harbor, where must rendered be,
Account of all the actions of the past.
Enjoy the spring of love and youth,
To some good angel leave the rest;
For time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest.
A handful of red sand from the hot clime
Of Arab deserts brought,
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,
The minister of Thought.