Quotes About Memories

Mirabelle? Mirabelle Bevan? Well, I'll be blowed!" Mirabelle started, almost spilling her drink. It took her a moment to realize who the handsome man was, now his hair was greying at the edges and he was out of uniform. Puffing laconically on a cigarette, martini in hand, he wore a lounge suit and an understated silk tie with a discreet regimental insignia woven into the fabric. "Eddie," she smiled. "What are you doing here?

There Will Be Stars There will be stars over the place forever; Though the house we loved and the street we loved are lost, Every time the earth circles her orbit On the night the autumn equinox is crossed, Two stars we knew, poised on the peak of midnight Will reach their zenith; stillness will be deep; There will be stars over the place forever, There will be stars forever, while we sleep.

It was a night of early spring, The winter-sleep was scarcely broken; Around us shadows and the wind Listened for what was never spoken. Though half a score of years are gone, Spring comes as sharply now as then— But if we had it all to do It would be done the same again. It was a spring that never came; But we have lived enough to know That what we never have, remains; It is the things we have that go.

Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us, Snow-hushed and heartless.

Only In Sleep Only in sleep I see their faces, Children I played with when I was a child, Louise comes back with her brown hair braided, Annie with ringlets warm and wild. Only in sleep Time is forgotten -- What may have come to them, who can know? Yet we played last night as long ago, And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair. The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces, I met their eyes and found them mild -- Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder, And for them am I too a child?

Let it be you who lean above me On my last day, Let it be you who shut my eyelids Forever and aye. Say a 'Good-night' as you have said it All of these years, With the old look, with the old whisper All without tears. You will know then all that in silence You always knew, Though I have loved, I loved no other As I love you.

Only in sleep I see their faces, Children I played with when I was a child, Louise comes back with her brown hair braided, Annie with ringlets warm and wild. Only in sleep Time is forgotten– What may have come to them, who can know? Yet we played last night as long ago, And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair. The years had not sharpened their smooth around faces, I met their eyes and found them mild– Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder, And for them am I, too, a child?

I thought of you and how you love this beauty, And walking up the long beach all alone I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder As you and I once heard their monotone. Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me The cold and sparkling silver of the sea– We two will pass through death and age lengthen Before you hear that sound again with me.

I have come to bury Love Beneath a tree, In the forest tall and black Where none can see. I shall put no flowers at his head, Nor stone at his feet, For the mouth I loved so much Was bittersweet. I shall go no more to his grave, For the woods are cold. I shall gather as much of joy As my hands can hold. I shall stay all day in the sun Where the wide winds blow,— But oh, I shall cry at night When none will know.

For you would never be content With just a corner in my room, Yea, if you came the rest must go ? Into the gloom. And so, farewell, O friend, my friend! Nay, I could weep a little too, But I shall only smile and say ? Farewell to you.

The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces, I met their eyes and found them mild— Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder, And for them am I too a child?

To-night I close my eyes and see A strange procession passing me– The years before I saw your face Go by me with a wistful grace; They pass, the sensitive, shy years, As one who strives to dance, half blind with tears. The years went by and never knew That each one brought me nearer you; Their path was narrow and apart And yet it led me to your heart– Oh, sensitive, shy years, oh, lonely years, That strove to sing with voices drown in tears.

There are certain people who come into your life, and leave a mark. . . Their place in your heart is tender; a bruise of longing, a pulse of unfinished business. Just hearing their names pushes and pulls at you in a hundred ways, and when you try to define those hundred ways, describe them even to yourself, words are useless.

When the remembering was done, the forgetting could begin.

Because love, love is never finished. It circles and circles, the memories out of order and not always complete.

I'm talking about the ones who, for whatever reason, are as much a part of you as your own soul. Their place in your heart is tender; a bruise of longing, a pulse of unfinished business. Just hearing their names pushes and pulls at you in a hundred ways, and when you try to define those hundred ways, describe them even to yourself, words are useless. If you had a lifetime to talk, there would still be things left unsaid.

No one measures a life in weeks and days. You measure life in years and by the things that happen to you.

Other memories stick, no matter how much you wish they wouldn't. They're like a song you hate but can't ever get completely out of your head, and this song becomes the background noise of your entire life, snippets of lyrics and lines of music floating up and then receding, a crazy kind of tide that never stops.

And I don't just mean that they change you. A lot of people can change you—the first kid who called you a name, the first teacher who said you were smart, the first person who crowned you best friend. It's the change you remember, the firsts and what they meant, not really the people.

and i don't just mean that they change you. a lot of people can change you - the first kid who called you a name, the first teacher who said you were smart, the first person who crowned you best friend. it's the change you remember, the firsts and what they meant, not really the people......i'm talking about the ones who, for whatever reason, are as much a part of you has your own soul. their place in your heart is tender; a bruise of longing, a pulse of unfinished business.

If we want the next generation to know where they came from and thus who they are, we tell them stories so they won't forget. Then they pass the stories on to the generation after them, and so it goes.

All the pictures that hung in my memory before I knew you have faded and given place to our radient moments together. Now I cannot live apart from you... Your words are my food, your breath is my wine. You are everything to me.

I am myself in spite of my memories." -Aunt Nicki

Point is, I invented me... maybe as a reaction to them... definitely as a reaction to them. I am myself in spite of my memories.