Four things do not come back: the spoken word, the sped arrow, the past life, and the neglected opportunity.
I don't regret what I've done but some of the things I didn't do.
While we are reasoning concerning life, life is gone.
Eternity gives nothing back of what one leaves out of the minutes.
Time flies never to be recalled.
She wondered if all the firsts in her life would go by so quickly, and be forgotten just as quickly.
Our lives disappear, even as we live them.
But how many moments are already past! Ah! who thinks of those that are past?
Often when we realize how precious those seconds are, it's too late for them to be captured because the moment has passed. We realize too late.
Days, months, years fly away, and irrecoverably sink in the abyss of time.
A photograph acquires something of the dignity which it ordinarily lacks when it ceases to be a reproduction of reality and shows us things that no longer exist.
Time flies, and what is past is done.
In the life of one man, never The same time returns.
Neither can the wave that has passed by be recalled, nor the hour which has passed return again.
But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, it's bloom is shed; Or, like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.
The most important thing to remember about depression is this: you do not get the time back. It is not tacked on at the end of your life to make up for the disaster years. Whatever time is eaten by a depression is gone forever. The minutes that are ticking by as you experience the illness are minutes you will not know again.
I remember the night when I was playing at Birdland, and Duke Ellington walked in wearing that cap of his and with all his elegance. The Duke then came backstage, and I was there with my band. That's the one thing I miss.
The past tempts us, the present confuses us, and the future frightens us. And our lives slip away, moment by moment, lost in that vast terrible in-between. But there is still time to seize that one last fragile moment.
All of life like a series of tableaux, and in the living we missed so much, hid so much, left so much undone and unsaid.
You can never go back to a time and try to recreate that sound, because that time is done.
I loved the way the burned-out flashcubes of the Kodak Instamatic marked a moment that had passed, one that would now be gone forever except for a picture.
The poet is a brother speaking to a brother of "a moment of their other lives" - a moment that had been buried beneath the dust of the busy world.
You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by.
One of these days, I'm going to publish a book of all the pictures I did not take.
Moments, when lost, can't be found again. They're just gone.
