Lord Byron Quotes

I was 13 and at summer camp when I had my first kiss.

You know how it is. Every time you kiss someone else, in a way you always remember that very first time.

I'm 65 years old. Everyday the future looks a little bit darker. But the past, even the grimy parts of it, well, it just keeps on getting brighter all the time.

I think about my mother every day. But usually the thoughts are fleeting - she crosses my mind like a spring cardinal that flies past the edge of your eye: startling, luminous, lovely... gone.

God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.

You - I don't think anybody ever forgets the first person they fell in love with. That's something that everybody remembers, and it doesn't matter what the time period is or where; I mean, those feelings are always the same.

I remember way back when I was young, 10 years ago.

I feel it was just a few years ago I was running around in short pants.

I'm growing old, I delight in the past.

I used to love the '20s.

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

Young fighters dream of the future. Old fighters seek to recapture the past.

Human life, old and young, takes place between hope and remembrance. The young man sees all the gates to his desires open, and the old man remembers--his hopes.

Every man is obsessed by the memories of his own youth.

From daydreams on the road there was no waking. He plodded on. He could remember everything of her save her scent. Seated in a theatre with her beside him leaning forward listening to the music. Gold scrollwork and sconces and the tall columnar folds of the drapes at either side of the stage. She held his hand in her lap and he could feel the tops of her stockings through the thin stuff of her summer dress. Freeze this frame. Now call down your dark and your cold and be damned.

But though first love's impassioned blindness Has passed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last goodnight. The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago.

Friends depart, and memory takes them To her caverns, pure and deep.

Promise you won't forget me, ever. Not even when I'm a hundred.

Every man who has lived for fifty years has buried a whole world or even two; he has grown used to its disappearance and accustomed to the new scenery of another act: but suddenly the names and faces of a time long dead appear more and more often on his way, calling up series of shades and pictures kept somewhere, "just in case," in the endless catacombs of the memory, making him smile or sigh, and sometimes almost weep.

Long since, the desert wind wiped away our footprints in the sand. But at every second of my existence, I remember what happened, and you still walk in my dreams and in my reality. Thank you for having crossed my path.

The future for me is already a thing of the past - You were my first love and you will be my last

And if I say to you that I am glad of everything we have done together, and sorry that we will not be here together in forty years, laughing at a faded photo of you impersonating a lion, it having withered well, you less so, as we stand fabulously old, in a city that understands what spirit it takes to be old, to be beautiful, to be much looked at, to be itself, to be never quite caught, to have a past, to be content, to have seen much, to have remained, to have continued...

One may return to the place of his birth, He cannot go back to his youth.

Nowadays he doesn't think of his wife, though he knows he can turn around and evoke every move of her, describe any aspect of her, the weigh of her wrist on his heart during the night.

We revisit those places where we experienced love, as pilgrims return to holy places, to be reminded, restored, and reaffirmed by them.