To live in hearts we leave behind,
Is not to die.

To live in hearts we leave behind,
Is not to die.

Our memory is like a shop in the window of which is exposed now one, now another photograph of the read more

Our memory is like a shop in the window of which is exposed now one, now another photograph of the same person. And as a rule the most recent exhibit remains for some time the only one to be seen.

Every man's memory is his private literature.

Every man's memory is his private literature.

The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.
[Lat., Vita enim mortuorum in memoria read more

The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.
[Lat., Vita enim mortuorum in memoria vivorum est posita.]

To be remembered after we are dead, is but poor recompense for being treated with contempt while we are living.

To be remembered after we are dead, is but poor recompense for being treated with contempt while we are living.

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.

A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.

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.

Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When Memory plays an old tune on the heart!

Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When Memory plays an old tune on the heart!