The days of the years of our pilgrimage are threescore years and ten . The generations crowd each other off the stage of time in swift succession. The sand runs out in the hour glass.
Time is only the tick of the second hand in the clock of the ages.
Some morning the senses will fail to resume business. Every door will be unlocked, every shutter drawn. Eye, ear, and hand will fail to respond. There will no longer be any medium by which to enter the temporal. Richard Burton Daughters of Time , the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.