Are there memories left that are safe from the clutches of phony anniversaries?

Let us love nobly, and live, and add again years and years unto years, till we attain to write threescore: this is the second of our reign.

The secret anniversaries of the heart.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.

We placed the wreaths upon the splendid granite sarcophagus, and at its feet, and felt that only the earthly robe we loved so much was there. The pure, tender, loving spirit which loved us so tenderly, is above us — loving us, praying for us, and free from all suffering and woe — yes, that is a comfort, and that first birthday in another world must have been a far brighter one than any in this poor world below!