We spend our years as a tale that is told.

Our time is a very shadow that passeth away.

Don't put off your happy life.

I would not live alway: let me alone: for my days are vanity.

For we must needs die, and are as water spilt on the ground, which cannot be gathered up again.

One thing you can't recycle is wasted time.

I flew on Air Force Two for eight years, and now I have to take off my shoes to get on an aeroplane.

I've a great fancy to see my own funeral before I die.

Perhaps it was the approach of death that had opened his eyes wide and made him see so clearly.

In spring, Granny would send me off to pick bluets, violets, and windflowers. As the weeks passed, she'd ask for yellow lady's slippers and bleeding hearts, then roses and white rhododendron clusters that grew along the stream. She'd always seem to know the day when the mayflies danced and died. When I'd come back from whatever venture she'd sent me on, she'd talk about how life was precious.

Their lips brushed like young wild flowers in the wind.

The vision of time is broad, but when you pass through it, time becomes a narrow door.