It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, read more

It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment -- but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?

Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravelled, fondly turns to thee;
Still to my read more

Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravelled, fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.

It's a pleasure to share one's memories. Everything remembered is dear, endearing, touching, precious. At least the past is safe read more

It's a pleasure to share one's memories. Everything remembered is dear, endearing, touching, precious. At least the past is safe --though we didn't know it at the time. We know it now. Because it's in the past; because we have survived.

Though sands be black and bitter black the sea,
Night lie before me and behind me night,
read more

Though sands be black and bitter black the sea,
Night lie before me and behind me night,
And God within far Heaven refuse to light
The consolation of the dawn for me,--
Between the shadowy burns of Heaven and Hell,
It is enough love leaves my soul to dwell
With memory.

If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my
mouth; if I prefer read more

If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my
mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.

I've never tried to block out the memories of the past, even though some are painful. I don't understand people read more

I've never tried to block out the memories of the past, even though some are painful. I don't understand people who hide from their past. Everything you live through helps to make you the person you are now.

But each day brings its petty dust our soon-choked souls to fill, and we forget because we must, and not read more

But each day brings its petty dust our soon-choked souls to fill, and we forget because we must, and not because we will.

Memories are all we really own.

Memories are all we really own.

Do not trust your memory; it is a net full of holes; the most
beautiful prizes slip through it.

Do not trust your memory; it is a net full of holes; the most
beautiful prizes slip through it.