A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind.—Dryden.
Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy.—Milton.
The noontide sun is dark, and music discord, when the heart is low.—Young.
Memory.—Memory is what makes us young or old.—Alfred de Musset.
No canvas absorbs color like memory.—Willmott.
Of all the faculties of the mind, memory is the first that flourishes, and the first that dies.—Colton.
Joy's recollection is no longer joy; but sorrow's memory is sorrow still.—Byron.
A sealed book, at whose contents we tremble.—L. E. Landon.
And fondly mourn the dear delusions gone.—Prior.
How can such deep-imprinted images sleep in us at times, till a word, a sound, awake them?—Lessing.