Quotes About Nostalgia

Do you think now and then, now or then, in the whirl Of the city, while London is new, Of the hut in the Bush, and the freckled-faced girl Who is eating her heart out for you?

Ah! The world is a new and a wide one to you, But the world to your sweetheart is shut, For a change never comes to the lonely Bush girl From the stockyard, the bush, and the hut; And the only relief from the dullness she feels Is when ridges grow softened and dim, And away in the dusk to the sliprails she steals To dream of past meetings with him.

A man always remembers his first love with special tenderness, but after that he begins to bunch them.

It's sad when someone you know becomes someone you knew.

Everyone who knows me knows that I'm a hopeless romantic who listens to love ballads and doo-wop songs all the time.

How memories lie to us. How time coats the ordinary with gold. How it breaks the heart to go back and attempt to re-live them. How crushed we are when we discover that the gold was merely gold-plating thinly coated over lead, chalk and peeling paint.

It's sad when someone you know becomes someone you knew.

Have you ever experienced something so great That years later you regretted the whole thing Seeing the hole it left in you?

I think that Bruce Springsteen should do a little number about a 7-Eleven in Asbury Park but write it in such a way that the entire U.S.A. can identify and slurp along with Bruce. Suck for the Boss. Hail the Boss! Hail 7-Eleven!

Young adulthood afforded me a lot of time on my own. Sometimes on a night off from work, I would park my car in a supermarket lot and just sit there, listening to tapes on my battery powered, one speaker Norelco. That sounds lonely but it was really cool, actually. It was all I needed. I pretty much do the same thing now but with slightly better playback.

I like listening to old music and collecting the odd artifact from those times but I can't just stay in one time period for too long. For me, that's leaning too far back into a couch and recounting war stories to your vet friends because they know what you know. That's basically saying that it's all over and now you're just going to recline ever further into the decaying echo of the past. No way, Fanatic. That's surrender and I can't do it.

It is sad when someone you know becomes someone you knew.

His mother called them his gems and often asked him why he liked things that were worn and old. It would have been hard to tell her. But there was something about the way in which the link of a chain was worn or the thread on a bolt or a castor-wheel that gave him a vague feeling of pain when he ran his fingers over them. They were like worn shoe-soles or very thin dimes. You never saw them wear, you only knew they were worn, obscurely aching

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,And Edith with golden hair.

Good-night! good-night! as we so oft have said Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days That are no more, and shall no more return. Thou hast but taken up thy lamp and gone to bed; I stay a little longer, as one stays To cover up the embers that still burn.

I hear in the chamber above meThe patter of little feet.

The heart, like the mind, has a memory. And in it are kept the most precious keepsakes.

Such was life; everything passed away; the fields and woodlands of boyhood became built upon; streets and pavements and lamp posts arose where warblers and willow wrens had sung; nothing ever remained the same.

Then he thought himself unhappy, but happiness was all in the future; now he felt that the best happiness was already in the past.

He looked at her as a man looks at a faded flower he has gathered , with difficulty recognizing the beauty for which he picked and ruined it.

She was utterly unlike what she had been when he first saw her. Both morally and physically she had changed for the worse. [...] He looked at her as a man looks at a faded flower he has gathered, with difficulty recognizing in it the beauty for which he picked and ruined it.

When I came to you out of all that dust and heat and toil, I positively smelt violets at once. But not the sweet violet - you know, that early dark violet that smells of melting snow and spring grass.

Rostov was not listening to the soldier. He looked at the snowflakes dancing above the fire and remembered the Russian winter with a warm, bright house, a fluffy fur coat, swift sleighs, a healthy body, and all the love and care of a family. "And why did I come here?" he wondered.