The little things that happen
Are tucked into your mind,
And come again to greet you
(Or most of them, you'll find).

Through many little doorways,
Of which you keep the keys,
They crowd into your thinking-
We call them memories.

But some of them are rovers
and wander off and yet
So lost, the keys grow rusty,
And that means-you forget.

But some stay ever near you;
You'll find they never rove-
The keys are always shining-
Those are the things we love.

Marjorie Wilson