When you connect as many memories to your geography as I have, and then you see that geography change around you, you're forced to reckon with the passage of time.
Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream, Gently, - as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!
How terrible a thing time is.
The vanity of human life is like a river, constantly passing away, and yet constantly coming on.
We have been conditioned to see the passing of time as an adversary.
It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave.
Life figures itself to me as a festal or funereal procession.
Death hath a thousand doors to let out life.
