Quotes About Memory

In most men there exists a poet who died young, whom the man survived.

Out of the ruined lodge and forgotten mansion, bowers that are trodden under foot, and pleasure-houses that are dust, the poet calls up a palingenesis.

My favourite poem is the one that starts 'Thirty days hath September' because it actually tells you something.

... what is great poetry, after all, but the continuation of the human voice after death?

All pasts are like poems; one can derive a thousand things, but not live in them.

True poetry is a function of awakening. It awakens us, but it must retain the memory of previous dreams.

Poetry today is easier to write but harder to remember.

Life's full of loss, who knows the cost, living in the memory of the love that never was.

I owe everything to a system that made me learn by heart till I wept. As a result I have thousands of lines of poetry by heart. I owe everything to this.

Learn poetry by heart. If you know a poem by heart, no one can take it away from you, and you can take advantage of it anytime.

Now is History as fast as the mind remembers.

I actually remember celebrating National Poetry Day at school; I remember having to write and read a load.

Poems are ways of saying you clearly remember the day of your death and your tomb. When I am writing poetry, I relive my days when a woman inside me dies many times.

A certain kind of poetry looks back at experience from an older perspective.

Fiction and poetry are the only way one can stop time and give an account of an experience and nail it down so that it lasts for ever.

in Italy, almost at every step, history and poetry add to the graces of nature, sweeten the memory of the past, and seem to preserve it in eternal youth.

My father had wanted to name me for Dylan Thomas. He had seen him speak on one of those drunken poetry tours he did.

Memory and poetry go together, absolutely. It is a matter of preserving and of remembering things.

If we do not learn by heart, the heart does not feel the rhythms of poetry as echoes or variations of its own insistent beat.

For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn't know I knew. I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew.

Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasing memory of all he stole.

You'd think hindsight would do us some goodBut all it does sometimesIs add glass to the kaleidoscope

With people you can never tell, Will they have changed when next we meet? But here in my dear old home at least, The plums still smell as sweet. / ???? ????? ????? ???? ???????

I'm merely dying to be remembered for simply writing about my living memories