Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the

“Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.” So spoke Benjamin Franklin, a man whose wisdom burned like a torch through the dark corridors of human sloth and forgetfulness. In this utterance lies a truth both simple and terrible: that time is the essence of life itself — not gold, not fame, not comfort, but the fleeting moments through which our hearts beat and our souls act. He who wastes his hours wastes his very being, for time once spent can never be reclaimed. Each passing breath is a strand of the thread from which destiny is woven.

The ancients, too, knew this truth. The Stoics taught that to command oneself, one must first command one’s use of time. Seneca wrote, “It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste much of it.” Franklin’s voice, centuries later, echoes this same warning, charged with the spirit of a man who built his fortune and his legend not by chance, but by discipline and diligence. His words awaken the sleeping heart, stirring it to realize that to love life is to act, to build, to grow, and not to let the river of hours slip silently by.

Consider the story of Franklin himself — born the fifteenth child in a poor family, with no wealth or title to his name. Yet through wise use of his time, he became a printer, inventor, statesman, and philosopher. He rose before dawn, planned each day with precision, and filled every hour with purpose. His Poor Richard’s Almanack brimmed with sayings that glorified industry and thrift, not as chains of toil, but as paths to freedom. He proved that the man who cherishes time holds dominion over his own fate. From the press he worked to the lightning he tamed, all sprang from his reverence for the hours that others cast away.

But history offers its shadows as well as its lights. How many souls, blessed with genius, have squandered it in idleness? Consider the poet who delayed his verses, the soldier who hesitated at the call, the lover who waited one day too long — all found that time waits for no man. The Romans spoke of Tempus fugit — “time flies” — and indeed, it is a silent thief. A single moment lost is a kingdom never ruled, a word never spoken, a dream never born. In the marketplace of life, time is the only coin, and every man spends it whether he will or no.

To squander time, then, is to despise life itself. Think of the morning sun, radiant and golden, calling men to rise. Each dawn is a covenant renewed — a gift to labor, to love, to learn. The wise greet it with readiness; the foolish turn away in slumber. When Franklin warned against squandering time, he was not merely urging productivity, but reverence — for each moment is sacred, the breath of the eternal moving through the mortal.

Let the lesson, then, be engraved upon the heart: to live fully is to live deliberately. Let not the hours pass in distraction or regret. Plan your days as the sculptor shapes marble — with vision and care. Let work be your devotion, and rest your renewal. Speak when words can heal; act when deeds can uplift. Waste not the dawns, for they are few; waste not the nights, for they are precious.

And so, when your own days near their twilight, you may say with calm and pride, “I have loved life, for I have not squandered its time.” For in the end, the clock will cease for every man — but he who has honored his hours shall not vanish into the dark. His work, his love, his wisdom shall remain — bright as Franklin’s own flame, lighting the way for those who follow. Guard your time, therefore, as the ancients guarded their sacred fire, for indeed, it is the very substance of life itself.