Quotes About Nostalgia

I wish I could show you the little village where I was born. It's so lovely there...I used to think it too small to spend a life in, but now I'm not so sure.

A trophy carries dust. Memories last forever.

I try to be good but sometimes a person just has to break out and act like the wild and springy thing one used to be. It's impossible not to remember wild an want it back.

Truly I try to be good but sometimes a person just has to break out and act like the wild and springy thing one used to be. It's impossible not to remember wild and want it back. So if someday you can't find me you might look into that tree or—of course it's possible—under it.

What is your heart doing now? Remembering. Remembering!

Previously there were small shops because it was a small town. Now there are small shops because the tourists want to think they are still in that little town, which has vanished.

I try to be good but sometimes a person just has to break out and act like the wild and springy thing one used to be. It's impossible not to remember wild and want it back.

This is Sammy's story. But I also think there are one or two poems in it somewhere. Maybe it's what life was like in this dear town years ago, and how a lot of us miss it. Or maybe it's about the wonderful things that may happen if you break the ropes that are holding you.

It's impossible not to remember wild and want it back.

Has anyone seen meadowlark? I've been looking for probably forty years now unsuccessfully. He used to live in the field I crossed many a morning heading to the woods, truant again from school. There were no meadowlarks in the school. Which was a good enough reason for me not to want to be there. But now it's more serious. There is no field, neither have the woods survived. So, where is meadowlark? If anyone has seen him, please would you let me know posthaste?

Yet, distantly, or sometimes not so distantly, I can hear that child's voice—I can feel its hope, or its distress.

Nature there will always be, but it will not be what we have now, much less the deeper fields and woodlands many of us remember from our childhood. The worlds of van Gogh and Turner and Winslow Homer, and Wordsworth too, and Frost and Jeffers and Whitman, are gone, and will not return. We can come to our senses yet, and rescue the world, but we will never return it to anything like its original form.

How often now I just sit, with my elbows on the desk and my hands holding my face bold and upright, and stare into the past.

Lucy's gift," she said. The watch had stopped. The hands were at 2:20.

Most of these seemingly collected by Keith's mother: "Some of the pleasantest recollections of my boyhood are of fried jackrabbit, baked jackrabbit, jackrabbit stew, and jackrabbit pie.")

tried to reenliven mealtimes by hiring a quartette to sing "The Chewing Song,"† an original Kellogg composition

The spirit of elder days found a dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps.

the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain

The world will never be again to me as it was; there was a life and freshness in it that is lost to me.

Have you ever thought, when something dreadful happens, "a moment ago things were not like this; let it be then, not now, anything but now"? And you try and try to remake then, but you know you can't. So you try to hold the moment quite still and not let it move on and show itself. It was like that.

the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds, which hardly any later friend can

At first, as the memory of former happiness contrasted to my present despair came across me

And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were but words, which found no true echo in my heart. Its several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and many a conversation, when I was not alone; and my companion was one who, in this world, I shall never see more. But this is for myself; my readers have nothing to do with these associations.

When I look up to the sky between the narrow roofs, it reminds me of you, the one who is far, far away.