There is pleasure in calm remembrance of a past sorrow.
Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance.
Grief and tragedy and hatred are only for a time.
Goodness, remembrance and love have no end, and the Lord of life holds all who die and all who mourn.
Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.
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Let's not burden our remembrance with a heaviness that's gone.
That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.
I don't like nostalgia unless it's mine.
The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.
If it seems a childish thing to do, do it in remembrance that you are a child.
The desire of our soul is to thy name, and to the remembrance of thee. Isaiah 26:8
To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.
That which resembles most living one's life over again, seems to be to recall all the circumstances of it; and, to render this remembrance more durable, to record them in writing.
Let us love nobly, and live, and add again years and years unto years, till we attain to write threescore: this is the second of our reign.
Remembrance of things past.
The thought of our past years in me does breed perpetual benedictions.
Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
I know not why there is such a melancholy feeling attached to the remembrance of past happiness, except that we fear that the future can have nothing so bright as the past.
By recollecting the pleasures I have had formerly, I renew them, I enjoy them a second time, while I laugh at the remembrance of troubles now past, and which I no longer feel.
But I owe something to Vincent, and that is, in the consciousness of having been useful to him, the confirmation of my own original ideas about painting. And also, at difficult moments, the remembrance that one finds others unhappier than oneself.
If I had my life over again I should form the habit of nightly composing myself to thoughts of death. I would practice, as it were, the remembrance of death. There is no other practice which so intensifies life. Death, when it approaches, ought not to take one by surprise. It should be part of the full expectancy of life. Without an ever-present sense of death life is insipid. You might as well live on the whites of eggs.
There's no use in weeping, Though we are condemned to part:There's such a thing as keepingA remembrance in one's heart...
If I have done any deed worthy of remembrance, that deed will be my monument.
If not, no monument can preserve my memory.
Before the beginning of yearsThere came to the making of manTime, with a gift of tears; Grief, with a glass that ran; Pleasure, with pain for leaven; Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance, fallen from heaven, And madness risen from hell; Strength without hands to smite; Love that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light, And Life, the shadow of death.
Remembrance and reflection how allied. What thin partitions divides sense from thought.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste. Then can I drown an eye (unused to flow) For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, and weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe, and moan the expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, and heavily from woe to woe tell over the sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, all losses are restored and sorrows end.
To look backward for a while is to refresh the eye, to restore it, and to render it the more fit for its prime function of looking forward.
Eulogies are like babies. They're more pleasurable to create than to deliver.
If I should die, think only this of me:That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever England. There shall beIn that rich earth a richer dust concealed;A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,A body of England's, breathing English air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
O rose, who dares to name thee?No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,--Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past--For years fleet away with the wings of the dove-- The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
Those who weep for the happy periods which they encounter in history acknowledge what they want; not the alleviation but the silencing of misery.
may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of livingwhatever they sing is better than to knowand if men should not hear them men are oldmay my mind stroll about hungryand fearless and thirsty and suppleand even if it
But fame is theirs - and future daysOn pillar'd brass shall tell their praise;
Shall tell - when cold neglect is dead -These for their country fought and bled.
Our dead brothers still live for us and bid us think of life, not death--of life to which in their youth they lent the passion and glory of Spring. As I listen, the great chorus of life and joy begins again, and amid the awful orchestra of seen and unseen powers and destinies of good and evil, our trumpets, sound once more a note of daring, hope, and will.
People have this obsession. They want you to be like you were in 1969. They want you to, because otherwise their youth goes with you. It's very selfish, but it's understandable.
Time has lost all meaning in that nightmare alley of the Western world known as the American mind. We wallow in nostalgia but manage to get it all wrong. True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories... but American-style nostalgia is about as ephemeral as copyrighted d?j? vu.
Ah tell me not that memory sheds gladness over the past;
what is recalled by faded flowers save that they did not last?
A society that has made nostalgia a marketable commodity on the cultural exchange quickly repudiates the suggestion that life in the past was in any important way better than life today.
A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain, and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles the rain.
It is a curious emotion, this certain homesickness I have in mind.
With Americans, it is a national trait, as native to us as the roller-coaster or the jukebox. It is no simple longing for the home town or country of our birth. The emotion is Janus-faced: we are torn between a nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.
That men in armour may be born With serpents' teeth the field is sown;
Rains mould, winds bend, suns gild the corn Too quickly ripe, too early mown. I scan the quivering heads, behold The features, catch the whispered breath Of friends long garnered in the cold Unopening granaries of death, Whose names in solemn cadence ring Across my slow oblivious page. Their friendship was a finer thing Than fame, or wealth, or honoured age, And--while you live and I--shall last Its tale of seasons with us yet Who cherish, in the undying past, The men we never can forget.
Even while I protest the assembly-line production of our food, our songs, our language, and eventually our souls, I know that it was a rare home that baked good bread in the old days. Mother's cooking was with rare exceptions poor, that good unpasteurized milk touched only by flies and bits of manure crawled with bacteria, the healthy old-time life was riddled with aches, sudden death from unknown causes, and that sweet local speech I mourn was the child of illiteracy and ignorance. It is the nature of a man as he grows older, a small bridge in time, to protest against change, particularly change for the better.
For us, the best time is always yesterday.
We placed the wreaths upon the splendid granite sarcophagus, and at its feet, and felt that only the earthly robe we loved so much was there. The pure, tender, loving spirit which loved us so tenderly, is above us -- loving us, praying for us, and free from all suffering and woe -- yes, that is a comfort, and that first birthday in another world must have been a far brighter one than any in this poor world below!
Are there memories left that are safe from the clutches of phony anniversaries?
Oh, for boyhood's painless play, sleep that wakes in laughing day, health that mocks the doctor's rules, knowledge never learned of schools.
Their time past, pulled down cracked and flung to the fire go up in a roar All recognition lost, burnt clean clean in the flame, the green dispersed, a living red, flame red, red as blood wakes on the ash--
When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.
To be a surrealist means barring from your mind all remembrance of what you have seen, and being always on the lookout for what has never been.