Robert Doisneau Quotes

And her life will perhaps be the richer, for holding now within it the memory of what came, but could not stay.

These happy golden years are passing by, these happy golden years.

The days of wine and roses laugh and run away like a child at playThrough the meadow land toward a closing doorA door marked "nevermore" that wasn't there before

I wish my days could be washed away like the chalk lines of my days.

How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?

But where are the snows of yester year?

Swift speedy time, feathered with flying hours, Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.

Time, you old gypsy man, will you not stay, put up your caravan just for one day?

Lovers come back. Styles come back. But time? It never comes back.

The calendar has a magic that makes us imagine a memory can be resurrected and revived, but nothing returns.

All those years and their moments— Crackling bacon, slamming car doors, Poems tried out on friends, Will be one more archive, One more shaky text.

How those fires burned that are no longer, how the weather worsened, how the shadow of the seagull vanished without a trace. Was it the end of a season, the end of a life? Was it so long ago it seems it might never have been? What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? (from "No Words Can Describe It")

You can't go home again because home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory.

While the flowers, pale and unreal in the moonlight, floated away upon the river; and thus do greater things that once were in our breasts, and near our hearts, flow from us to the eternal sea.

We studied our angels for a few moments more, looking at where we had lain side by side in that sweet, quiet moment. I wished what I’d said was true, that we had truly left our mark on the mountain. But I knew that after the next snowfall, our angels would disappear into the whiteness and be nothing more than a memory.

Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.

Looking out at the road rushing under my wheels. Looking back at the years gone by like so many summer fields.

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

it seemed a lifetime ago i'd lain in bed with Lena and felt her breath tickling my chin and held her while she slept, felt her heart beating through her skin to mine. it was a lifetime ago. everything was different.

As ephemeral as our footprints were in the sand along the river, so also were those moments of childhood caught in the photographs. And so will be our family itself, our marriage, the children who enriched it and the love that has carried us through so much. All this will be gone. What we hope will remain are these pictures, telling our brief story.

Do you see the Field of Mars, where I walked next to my bride in her white wedding dress, with red sandals in her hands, when we were kids?” “I see it well.” “We spent all our days afraid it was too good to be true, Tatiana,” said Alexander. “We were always afraid all we had was a borrowed five minutes from now.” Her hands went on his face. “That’s all any of us ever has, my love,” she said. “And it all flies by.” “Yes,” he said, looking at her, at the desert, covered coral and yellow with golden eye and globe mallow. “But what a five minutes it’s been.

Days of wine and roses laugh and run away, like a child at play.