Tide flowing is feared, for many a thing,
Great danger to such as be sick, it doth bring;
Sea ebb, by long ebbing, some respite doth give,
And sendeth good comfort, to such as shall live.
| author = Tusser
| work = Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry.
| place = Ch.XIV. St. 5.
| seealso = (See also Dickens under Death)
| topic = Tide
| page = 792
}}
- TIGER ##
- TIGER ##
TIGER
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 2
| text = <poem>Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Gould frame thy fearful symmetry?
- TIME ##
TIME
Six years—six little years—six drops of time.
Modo, et modo, non habebent modum.
By-and-by has no end.
Backward, flow backward, O full tide of years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,
Toil without recompense—tears all in vain.
Take them and give me my childhood again.
I have grown weary of dust and decay,
Weary of flinging my heart's wealth away—
Weary of sowing for others to reap;
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.
A. M. W. Ball—Rock me to Sleep, Mother.
Attributed to Elizabeth Akees Allen.
See Northern Monthly. Vol.11. 1868. Pub.
by Allen L. Bassett, Newark, N. J. Appendix to March, Vol.11. 1868. Ball shows
proof that he wrote it in 1856-7. Produces
witness who saw it before 1860. Mrs. Allen
says she wrote it in Italy, 1860. It was published in The Knickerbocker Mag., May, 1861.
Backward, turn backward, then time in your
flight;
Make me a child again just for tonight.
Mother, come back from the echoeless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore.
A. M. W. Ball—Rock me to Sleep, Mother.
Why slander we the times?
What crimes
Have days and years, that we
Thus charge them with iniquity?
If we would rightly scan,
It's not the times are bad, but man.
Dr. J. Beaumont—Original Poems.
Wherever anything lives, there is, open somewhere, a register in which time is being inscribed.
Henri Bergson—Creative Evolution. Ch. I.
Le temps fuit, et nous tratne avec soi:
Le moment ou je parle est deja loin de moi.
Time flies and draws us with it. The moment in which I am speaking is already far
from me. ,
Boileau—Epttres. III. 47.
What's not destroyed by Time's devouring hand?
Bramston—Art of Politicks.
Think not thy time short in this world, since
the world itself is not long. The created world
is but a small parenthesis in eternity, and a
short interposition, for a time, between such a
state of duration as was before it and may be
after it.
Sir Thomas Browne—Christian Morals. Pt.
in. xxrx.
Time was made for slaves.
John B. Buckstone—Billy Taylor.
| seealso = (See also Emerson)
| topic = Time
| page = 792
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Time is money.
Bulwer-Lttton—Money. Act III. Sc. 3.
Behind, he hears Time's iron gates close faintly,
He is now far from them;
For he has reached the city of the saintly,
The New Jerusalem.
Eev. James D. Burns—Poem of a Death
Believer. In the Vision of Prophecy.
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic = Time
| page = 792
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 15
| text = Some wee short hour ayont the twal.
Burns—Death and Dr. Hornbook.
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic = Time
| page = 792
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 15
| text = Nae man can tether time or tide.
Burns—Tarn o' Shanter.
How slowly time creeps till my Phoebe returns!
While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I
burn.
Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread,
I could breathe on his wings and 'twould melt
down the lead.
Fly swifter, 3-e minutes, bring hither my dear,
And rest so much longer for 't when she is here.
John Btrom—A Pastoral.
The good old times—all times when old are
Are gone.
| author = Byron
| work = Age of Bronze.
| seealso = (See also Ecclesiastes)
| topic = Time
| page = 792
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him
In soul and aspect as in age; years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the lhr.b ;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the
brim.
Byron—Childe Harold. Canto in. St. 8.
When Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.
Byron—Childe Harold. Canto III. St. 22.
O Time! the beautifier of the dead,
Adorner of the ruin, comforter
And only healer when the heart hath bled—
Time! the corrector where our judgments err,
The test of truth, love, sole philosopher,
For all besides are sophists, from thy thrift
Which never loses though it doth defer—
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of
thee a gift.
Byron—Childe Harold. Canto IV. St. 130.
