Youth passes like a dream.
When I was a kid, those were carefree days without much pressure.
When I'm 80 and sitting in a rocking chair listening to the Rolling Stones, there is absolutely no way I'm going to feel old or forget my younger days.
Let us savour the swift delights of the most beautiful of our days!
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.
It is a great mistake on the part of elderly ladies, male and female, to tell a child that he is seeing his happiest days. Do not you believe a word of it, my little friend.
Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
I pop in highlight films from high school once in a while because those days were special.
Your past is always your past. Even if you forget it, it remembers you.
Time slips away and leaves you with nothing, mister, but boring stories of glory days.
Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun Now I may wither into the truth.
I'm older than I was before when I was young.
When we are thirsty, we drink the white waters of the pool, the sweetness of our mournful childhood.
The days of my youth, as I look back on them, seem to fly away from me in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those morning snow storms of used tissue paper that a train passenger sees whirling in the wake of the observation car.
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
