A painter paints, a musician plays, a writer writes - but a movie actor waits.
Fine natures are like fine poems; a glance at the first two lines suffices for a guess into the beauty that waits you if you read on.
When you consider Life as sacred,Nature waits on you
The tree does not die, it waits.
We in the 25th hour, It's now or never. We gotta get it 'fore it's gone forever. In the end, time waits for no man. . . What's your plan?
I think of the flower in the bud: huddled, compressed, dark. Yet somehow it feels the night, knows moon from sun. It waits. . . waits.
Life always waits for some crisis to occur before revealing itself at its most brilliant.
Hospital waits are bad ones. The fact that they happen to pretty much all of us, sooner or later, doesn't make them any less hideous.
The clock never stops, never stops, never waits. We're growing old. It's getting late.
There are certain people who seem doomed to buy certain houses. The house expects them. It waits for them.
Hope is what sits by the window and waits for one more dawn, despite the fact that there isn't an ounce of proof in tonight's black, black sky that it can possible come.
Applause waits on success.
Time waits for no man.
Who waits until circumstances completely favor his undertaking, will never accomplish anything.
He who walks alone, waits for no-one.
He will win who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared.
Life is a charity ball given by the leaders of society. A few dance, get their charity's worth to the last penny; and the poor stand outside the gate and watch with hungry eyes the glint of jewels in the warm air. Then comes the lackey Death, and he says: "Madam and my Master, your carriage waits. " So they go away into the dark in the carriage of the black plumes, and the dancing continues.
We Americans, with our terrific emphasis on youth, action, and material success, certainly tend to belittle the afternoon of life and even to pretend it never comes. We push the clock back and try to prolong the morning, over-reaching and over-straining ourselves in the unnatural effort. . . . In our breathless attempts we often miss the flowering that waits for afternoon.
If he waits for the ideal moment, he will never set off; he requires a touch of madness to take the next step. The warrior uses that touch of madness. For - in both love and war - it is impossible to foresee everything.
A man who does not ask to much become the promise of his land. His marriage married to his place, he waits and does not stray.