The heart, like the mind, has a memory. And in it are kept the most precious keepsakes.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowSweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow