Alexander Smith Quotes

as they die, the ones we love, we lose our witnesses, our watchers, those who know and understand the tiny little meaningless patterns, those words drawn in water with a stick. And there is nothing left but the endless flow.

A dead love never dies.

Death, vicious death, Leave a green branch for love.

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?

The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, Who died before the god of love was born.

Imperceptibly, more time passes when I'm not remembering our every moment together, not recreating our every conversation, re-imagining our love-making. It is immeasurably sad.

Even so you have managed to live that love in the only way possible for you. Losing it before it happened.

That you are not already golden word in our streets Already memories Your love fades Already Whether you are no longer to have perished.

She stood beside me for years, or was it a moment? I cannot remember. Maybe I loved her, maybe I didn't. There was a house, and then no house. There were trees, but none remain. When no one remembers, what is there? You, whose moments are gone, who drift like smoke in the afterlife, tell me something, tell me anything.

For to wish to forget how much you loved someone-- and then, to actually forget-- can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart.

The tragedy is not that love doesn't last. The tragedy is the love that lasts.

In 1957's 'There's No You,' Sinatra is suspended at the intersection of a loss he can't face and a memory he can't relinquish.

Hell, madam, is to love no longer.

We all have that burning question about what happens if we lose somebody we love, especially if we lose them tragically. We wonder what fear was going on, we wonder if we could have reached out and touched them, held their hand, looked in their eyes, been there.

I envy the dead.

I cannot love as I have loved, And yet I know not why; It is the one great woe of life To feel all feeling die.

We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.

Dad, wherever you are, you are gone but you will never be forgotten.

At the age of 62, my father died of cancer - it was much too soon. My mother never remarried or got over it, never even thought of another man.

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.

There's a sadness about love, a melancholy and a sadness about beauty. It's just part of the human experience of living on this planet.

He who has loved often ... has loved never.

I felt the unfairness of it, the inarguable injustice of loving someone who might have loved you back but can't due to deadness.

You forget all of it anyway. . . You forget who was cool and who was not, who was pretty, smart, athletic, and not. . . You forget all of them. Even the ones you said you loved, and even the ones you actually did. They’re the last to go. And then once you’ve forgotten enough, you love someone else.