C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Remembrance

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train.

Goldsmith.

Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake.

Shakespeare.

Riveted,
Screwed to my memory.

Shakespeare.

Remembrance is the only paradise out of which we cannot be driven away.

Richter.

O, it comes over my memory, as doth the raven over the infected house, boding to all.

Shakespeare.

She sent him rosemary, to the intent that he should hold her in remembrance.

Drayton.

The leafy blossoming present time springs from the whole past, remembered and unrememberable.

Carlyle.

Praising what is lost,
Makes the remembrance dear.

Shakespeare.

His years with others must the sweeter be
For those brief days he spent in loving me.

George Eliot.

Every one can remember that which has interested himself.

Plautus.

I cannot but remember such things were
That were most precious to me.

Shakespeare.

You can’t order remembrance out of the mind; and a wrong that was a wrong yesterday must be a wrong to-morrow.

Thackeray.

Some people regret that they have poor memories. Alas! it is much more difficult to forget.

Mme. Deluzy.

Remembrance of the dead soon fades. Alas! in their tombs they decay more slowly than in our hearts.

Victor Hugo.

Let never day nor night unhallow’d pass,
But still remember what the Lord has done.

Shakespeare.

She plac’d it sad, with needless fear,
Lest time should shake my wavering soul—
Unconscious that her image there
Held every sense in fast control.

Bryon.

What is excellent,
As God lives, is permanent;
Hearts are dust, hearts’ loves remain,
Heart’s love will meet thee again.

Emerson.

Sooner shall the blue ocean melt to air,
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea,
Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair!
Or think of anything, excepting these.

Byron.

Remembrances last longer than present reality, as I have conserved blossoms many years, but never fruits. Yes, there are tender female souls which intoxicate themselves only among the blossoms of the vineyard of joy, as others do only with the berries of the vinehill.

Richter.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,
Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past
The forms that once have been.

Longfellow.

Departed suns their trails of splendor drew
Across departed summers: whispers came
From voices, long ago resolved again
Into the primeval Silence, and we twain,
Ghosts of our present selves, yet still the same,
As in a spectral mirror wandered there.

Bayard Taylor.

Go where glory waits thee;
But while fame elates thee,
O, still remember me.
When the praise thou meetest,
To thine ear is sweetest,
O, then remember me.

Moore.

Oh! only those
Whose souls have felt this one idolatry,
Can tell how precious is the slightest thing
Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower
Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks
That made each leaf a treasure.

Miss Landon.

Man hath a weary pilgrimage,
As through the world he wends;
On every stage, from youth to age,
Still discontent attends;
With heaviness he casts his eye
Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh,
The days that are no more.

Robert Southey.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist;
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Longfellow.

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Longfellow.

I remember, I remember,
The fir-trees dark and high:
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

Hood.

O years, gone down into the past,
What pleasant memories come to me
Of your untroubled days of peace,
And hours almost of ecstasy.

Phœbe Cary.

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