.

It is a face seen once and lost forever in a crowd,
an eye that looked, a face that smiled and vanished
on a passing train, it is a prescience of snow upon a certain night,
the laughter of a woman in a summer street long years ago,
it is the memory of a single moon seen at the pines'
dark edge in old October- and all of our lives are
written in the twisting of leaf upon a bough,
a door that opened, and a stone.

...................................................

.Thomas Wolfe,
Of Time and the River