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| A Day in Old New England with Charles Wysocki |
| A Window of Memory by Juanita Hess It was just a kitchen window, with a painted windowsill, But the lessons I learned at it are guiding my life still; What a haven for us children, when the snow was inches deep And the rabbits and the snowbirds ventured near, so they could eat. |
| There I watched the sun's rays lengthen, as it peeped up o'er the hill, And I learned each changing season by the way it touched the sill. It was the first one that was opened when spring was in the air, And the whippoorwill at evening to its mate was calling there. |
| Such a medley of spring voices, piping frogs, warm winds so sweet, With the odor of spring blossoms waking from their winter sleep. No matter how the journey, whether rough the way or sweet, That window was a cheerful ray to guide our homing feet. |
| Yet most of all, I seem to think of how Ma placed a light Right in the middle of the window when we went out at night. And all the kind reflections in that window on the hill, From that beacon in the window...in my heart are shining still! |
| I wonder if Ma knew that we would some day journey back, When our footsteps seemed to falter along life's rugged track, Though only in fond memory, to that beacon on the hill... To the light she kept a-burning on that kitchen windowsill. |
| Gather well your memories, store them against tomorrow; When day is dark and song is gone, so a vision you might borrow. -- Mabel Gabbott |
| Some things fade out of our lives and leave no trace behind, No vivid pictures photographed upon the heart or mind; But love illumines and makes bright the faces that we see, Smiling at us from the mirror of our memory. -- Patience Strong |
| Line by line, moment by moment, special times are etched into our memories in the permanent ink of love and devotion. -- Gloria Gaither |
| And even if you were in some prison, the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses...would you not then still have your childhood, that precious treasure-house of memories? -- Rainer Maria Rilke |
| Sometimes the things that were the hardest to bear are the sweetest to remember. -- Seneca |
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