We bury love, Forgetfulness grows over it like grass; That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

A man must get a thing before he can forget it.

All things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams.

But my thoughts ran a wool-gathering; and I did like the countryman, who looked for his ass while he was mounted on his back.

God of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle-line, Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!