Richelle Mead Quotes

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

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

The world changes too fast. You take your eyes off something that's always been there, and the next minute it's just a memory.

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

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

And here you are hurried, And here you are gone; And here is the love, That it's all built upon.

A memory from my youth comes back to me. You go into the woods on a bike, with a girl. There is the smell of heather, you can hear the wind in the fir trees, you don't dare tell her about your love, but you feel happy, as if you were floating above the ground. Then you look at the clouds beyond the trees and they are fleeting. And you know that within an hour you'll have to go home, that tomorrow will be a working day. You wish you could stop that moment forever, but you can't, it is bound to end. So you take a photo, as if to challenge time.

Once time is lit, it will burn whether or not you're breathing it in. Even after smoke becomes air, there is the memory of smoke. I am seeing as if by the light of a match, a glimpse of my life and having it feel right.

Things happen once only and are never repeated, never return. Except in memory.

But where are the snows of yester year?

I remember as a kid having a balloon and accidentally letting the string go and watching it just float off and into the sky until it disappeared. And there's something about that, even, that feels very much like what life is, you know, that it's fleeting, and it's temporal.

There are too many books I haven't read, too many places I haven't seen, too many memories I haven't kept long enough.

Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January.

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

He paused again as a tear of longing rolled from cheek to lip with the sweet-salty taste of an old memory.

Back to him she would never go, but in her lonely life still lived the sweet memory of that happy time when she believed in him and he was all in all to her.

Precipitate as weather, she appeared from somewhere, then evaporated, leaving only memory.

What's gone will never come back, but it exists when you think of it.

Memory is the most transient of all possessions. And when it goes, it leaves as few traces as stars that have disappeared.

Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay. And just as any period decays in our minds, the things of that period should decay too, and in that way they're preserved for a while in the few hearts like mine that react to them. Trying to preserve a century by keeping its relics up to date is like keeping a dying man alive by stimulants.

They say that Hope is happiness But genuine Love must prize the past; And Mem'ry wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose first -- they set the last. And all that mem'ry loves the most Was once our only hope to be: And all that hope adored and lost Hath melted into memory. Alas! It is delusion all-- The future cheats us from afar: Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are.

Things always seem to glide away. They come to you, stay a moment, then leave again.

The pen will never be able to move fast enough to write down every word discovered in the space of memory. Some things have been lost forever, other things will perhaps be remembered again, and still other things have been lost and found and lost again. There is no way to be sure of any this.