Quotes About Memory

That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet

The days will have more hours while you are gone away.

And somebody has lost the face That made existence home!

The past is not a package one can lay away.

This was in the white of the year, That was in the green, Drifts were as difficult then to think As daisies now to be seen. Looking back is best that is left, Or if it be before, Retrospection is prospect's half, Sometimes almost more.

Die geliebt werden, können nicht sterben, denn Liebe bedeutet Unsterblichkeit.  

To wander now is my abode; To rest,—to rest would be A privilege of hurricane To memory and me.

The Babies we were are buried, and their shadows are plodding on.

A letter always feels to me like Immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.

Then I will not repine Knowing that bird of mine Though flown shall in a distant tree Bright melody for me Return.

Remorse is memory awake, Her companies astir,— A presence of departed acts At window and at door. Its past set down before the soul, And lighted with a match, Perusal to facilitate Of its condensed despatch. Remorse is cureless,—the disease Not even God can heal; For 't is His institution,— The complement of hell.

That it will never come again is what makes life sweet

The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear; Their coming back seems possible For many an ardent year. And then, that we have followed them We more than half suspect, So intimate have we become With their dear retrospect.

Hace unos cuantos días perdí un mundo, ¿no lo ha encontrado nadie? Lo reconoceréis por una sarta de estrellas que le ciñen la cabeza.

Se remémorer Un Plaisir qui nous fut Retiré - Offre une Félicité comparable à un Meurtre - Omnipotente - Aiguë - Nous ne lâcherons pas le Poignard - Car Nous aimons la Blessure Que le Poignard Commémore - c'est Lui Qui Nous rappelle que Nous avons péri -

Les Étais soutiennent la Maison Jusqu'à ce que la Maison soit achevée Puis les Étais se retirent Et adéquate, droite, La Maison se tient seule Et ne se souvient plus Du Foret et du Charpentier - Telle est exactement l'expérience rétrospective D'une Vie accomplie - Un Passé de Planche et de Clou Et de lenteur - puis tombent les échafaudages Et s'affirme une Âme -

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.

Remember and care for me sometimes, and scatter a fragrant flower in this wilderness life of mine by writing me.

REMORSE. Remorse is memory awake, Her companies astir, — A presence of departed acts At window and at door. It's past set down before the soul, And lighted with a match, Perusal to facilitate Of its condensed despatch. Remorse is cureless, — the disease Not even God can heal; For 't is his institution, — The complement of hell.

Where we belong is often where we least expect to find ourselves—a place that we may have willed ourselves to forget, but that the heart remembers forever.

In the final seconds before sleep, I wish I could go back and undo everything, give those little girls another chance.

Much later, she would go back and read the entry, and think to herself that memories were that way, too. When you wanted to forget, everything would return in raw, brutal focus. When you wanted to remember, the details would slip away like a dream at dawn.

and then realize it's not Peter I miss, but the idea of what I once thought we shared.

You can, for just a moment, fuse grief like a bone, but the memory of the ability to bend lingers inside, like an itch running in the blood, just beneath the skin: relief is always only temporary. Grief, we understood, would now hijack a part of our day for the rest of our lives, sneaking in, making the world momentarily stop, every day, forever.