13 Poems On Aging

Let these poems on aging and getting older inspire you to be thankful and encouraged every year you are alive. The poems may make you smile, but there is wisdom in the verses. Great reflections to think about if your age is getting you down! Life is too short to worry about your age, live every day and be happy!


Short Poems   /   Poems About Life   /   Poems on Aging - related: Quotes About Aging


  1. Old Age
    Poet: Julie Hebert, 2012

    One day you'll wake up,
    And feel an awful ache.
    It's then you'll realize you're candles,
    Won't fit upon your cake.

    It's an inevitable thing,
    That we all will get old.
    It's how we look at it,
    That will tell how life unfolds.

    Do you see it as good,
    From this point on life will be great?
    Or do you see it as bad,
    That soon you will be dead.

    If every time you cringe,
    When a birthday rolls around,
    You might as well sit back,
    And watch your life meltdown.

    You have to think of aging,
    As something more than that.
    With aging comes great wisdom,
    And that should be looked at!

    Aging mean's you've lived,
    And birthdays mean one more.
    Have a happy birthday,
    As there is still so much to explore.



  2. poems about life and aging


  3. Measured Years
    Poet: Althea Randolph

    Age ne'er can rightly measured be,
    Nor thought of, even.
    Unless we count the days and years,
    As true love given!



  4. Will Not Grow Old
    Poet: Unknown

    It was an old distorted face
    An uncouth visage rough and wild,
    Yet from behind with laughing grace,
    Peeped the fresh beauty of a child.

    Behind gray hairs and furrowed brow
    And withered look that life puts on
    Each as he wears it, comes to know
    How the child hides and is not gone.

    For while the inexorable years
    To saddened features fit their mould.
    Beneath the work of time and tears
    Waits something that will not grow old.



  5. Evening Pastimes
    Poet: Alice Cary

    Sitting by my fire alone.
    When the winds are rough and cold,
    And I feel myself grow old
    Thinking of the summers flown.

    I have many a harmless art
    To beguile the tedious time:
    Sometimes reading some old rhyme
    I already know by heart;

    Sometimes singing over words
    Which in youth's dear day gone by
    Sounded sweet, so sweet that I
    Had no praises for the birds.

    Then, from off its secret shelf
    I from dust and moth remove
    The old garment of my love.
    In the which I wrap myself.

    And a little while am vain;
    But its rose hue will not bear
    The sad light of faded hair;
    So I fold it up again,

    More in patience than regret:
    Not a leaf the forest through
    But is sung and whispered to:
    I shall wear that garment yet.



  6. When We Are Old
    Poet: F. W. Sanderson

    When are we old? and how and where,
    When gray hairs steal in unaware?
    May it be known by signs of care,
    Or children's children here and there?

    'Tis by the heart the secret's told,
    'Tis by the smile we're young or old,
    'Tis as the life its joy shall hold,
    It is the laugh reveals the soul.


  7. Let Me But Live
    Poet: Henry VanDyke

    Let me but live my life from year to year,
    With forward face and unreluctant soul;
    Not hurrying to, nor turning from, the goal;
    Not mourning for the things that disappear
    In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
    From what the future veils; but with a whole
    And happy heart, that pays its toll
    To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.

    So let the way wind up the hill or down,
    O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy:
    Still seeking what I sought when but a boy,
    New friendship, high adventure, and a crown,
    My heart will keep the courage of the quest,
    And hope the road's last turn will be the best.





  8. aging mean's you've lived


  9. Long Ago
    Poet: Eugene Field

    I once knew all the birds that came
    And nested in our orchard trees;
    For every flower I had a name -
    My friends were woodchucks, toads and bees
    I knew where thrived in yonder glen
    What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe -
    Oh, I was very learned then;
    But that was very long ago!

    I knew the spot upon the hill
    Where checkerberries could be found,
    I knew the rushes near the mill
    Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound!
    I knew the wood, - the very tree
    Where lived the poaching, saucy crow,
    And all the woods and crows knew me -
    But that was very long ago.

    And pining for the joys of youth,
    I tread the old familiar spot
    Only to learn this solemn truth:
    I have forgotten, am forgot.
    Yet here's this youngster at ray knee
    Knows all the things I used to know;
    To think I once was wise as he -
    But that was very long ago.

    I know it's folly to complain
    Of whatsoe'er the Fates decree;
    Yet were not wishes all in vain,
    I tell you what my wish should be:
    I'd wish to be a boy again,
    Back with the friends I used to know;
    For I was, oh! so happy then -
    But that was very long ago!



  10. Growing Old
    Poet: Margaret E. Sangster

    Is it parting with the roundness
    Of the smoothly moulded cheek?
    Is it losing from the dimples
    Half the flashing joy they speak?
    Is it fading of the lustre
    From the wavy, golden hair?
    Is it finding on the forehead
    Graven lines of thought and care?

    Is it dropping, as the rose-leaves
    Drop their sweetness overblown,
    Household names that once were dearer,
    More familiar than our own?
    Is it meeting on the pathway
    Faces strange and glances cold,
    While the soul with moan and shiver
    Whispers sadly, "Growing old "?

    Is it frowning at the folly
    Of the ardent hopes of youth?
    Is it cynic melancholy
    At the rarity of truth?
    Is it disbelief in loving?
    Selfish hate, or miser's greed?
    Then such blight of Nature's noblest
    Is a "growing old" indeed.

    But the silver thread that shineth
    Whitely in the thinning trees,
    And the pallor where the bloom was,
    Need not tell of bitterness:
    And the brow's more earnest writing
    Where it once was marble fair,
    May be but the spirit's tracing
    Of the peace of answered prayer.

    If the smile has gone in deeper,
    And the tears more quickly start,
    Both together meet in music
    Low and tender in the heart;
    And in others' joy and gladness,
    When the life can find its own,
    Surely angels learn to listen
    To the sweetness of the tone.

    Nothing lost of all we planted
    In the time of budding leaves;
    Only some things bound in bundles
    And set by our precious sheaves;
    Only treasure kept in safety,
    Out of reach and out of rust,
    Till we clasp it grown the richer
    Through the glory of our trust.

    On the gradual sloping pathway,
    As the passing years decline.
    Gleams a golden love-light falling
    Far from upper heights divine.
    And the shadows from that brightness
    Wrap them softly in their fold,
    Who unto celestial whiteness
    Walk, by way of growing old.



  11. Who Gather Gold
    Poet: Andrew B. Saxton

    They soon grow old who grope for gold
    In marts where all is bought and sold:
    Who live for self and on some shelf
    In darkened vaults hoard up their pelf;
    Cankered and crusted o'er with mould
    For them their youth itself is old.

    They ne'er grow old who gather gold
    Where spring awakes and flowers unfold;
    Where suns arise in joyous skies,
    And fill the soul within their eyes.
    For them the immortal bards have sung;
    For them old age itself is young.



  12. Age Is Opportunity
    Poet: Unknown

    Is it too late? Ah, nothing's too late
    Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
    Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles
    Wrote his grand "Oedipus," and Simonides
    Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers,
    When each had numbered more than four-score years;
    And Theophrastus at fourscore and ten
    Had but begun his "Characters of Men";
    Chaucer at Woodstock, with the Nightingales,
    At sixty wrote the "Canterbury Tales";
    Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last,
    Completed "Faust" when eighty years were past.

    What then? Shall we sit idly down and say,
    "The night hath come; it is no longer day"?
    The night hath not yet come; we are not quite
    Cut off from labor by the failing light;
    Something remains for us to do or dare.
    Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear;
    For age is opportunity no less
    Than youth itself, though in another dress;
    And as the evening twilight fades away,
    The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.



  13. The World And I
    Poet: Nellie Olson

    IN YOUTH
    Upon the shingly beach I dream,
    A boy, with bare feet tucked in sand,
    And longing look to sea;
    Nor mind the roaring waters sweep
    On troubled bosom at my feet
    The fragments of a wreck.
    To me the world is young,
    And clearly shines the o'er-arched sky;
    The pebbles, freshly washed, to me
    Are bright as rubies are!
    The world is young!
    The world and I are young!

    IN OLD AGE
    A trembling shadow of the past,
    I totter down the lane.
    About me heaps the drifting snow;
    The heavy branches, bending low,
    Bow stately as I pass;
    The lusty breeze, ice-ladened sweeps
    Athwart the lonely lane,
    Nor stops to spare my heavy years
    Nor cheer my heart-felt pain.
    Upon my head the fingers of the frost
    Have left a hoary crest,
    While upon the wintry blast
    I hear the message carried - rest.
    The world is old!
    The world and I are old!



  14. We Are Growing Old
    Poet: Lida M. Smith

    We are growing old - how the thought will rise,
    As a glance is backward cast!
    We note our wrinkles with weary sighs;
    The luster is dim in our once bright eyes.
    Life's sun is sinking fast;
    The lengthening shadows along our path
    Warn us the evening's near;
    And just before us death's river flows;
    When the hour is still and our souls repose.
    The lap of its waves we hear.

    But why need we care? Just across its tide
    Lieth the land of rest;
    Sometimes we hear, mid life's storms and calms,
    The soft wind's murmur amid its palms,
    And the anthems of the blest;
    And oft we hear with our spirit care,
    When the winds of heaven breathe low,
    Sounding from Salem's gold-paved street
    The echoing tread of our loved ones' feet,
    Who left us long ago.

    And often we see, with spirit eyes,
    Through sunset's mystic bar,
    In the vast, dim distance the shadowing gleam
    Of the city of light and life's fair stream,
    Through the golden gates ajar.
    Oh, the flowers of spring are fair to see,
    Yet sweet doth the fall rose blow,
    And grander than morning's radiance fair,
    When dewy blossoms perfume the air,
    To sunset's golden glow.

    We mourn not the vanished days of spring ,.
    We care not we're growing old.
    In the fear of the Lord let us pass each day;
    Then let them speed away, away,
    Swift as a tale that's told.
    We are looking away from this desert land
    To the happy home of the blest,
    Patiently waiting year by year,
    Till the glad sweet summons our souls shall hear,
    "Come, enter into rest."



  15. Faith And Hope
    Poet: Rembrandt Peale

    Oh, don't be sorrowful, darling!
    Now, don't be sorrowful, pray;
    For, taking the year together, my dear,
    There isn't more night than day.
    It's rainy weather, my loved one;
    Time's wheels they heavily run;
    But taking the year together, my dear,
    There isn't more cloud than sun.

    We're old folks now, companion;
    Our heads they are growing gray;
    But taking the year all round, my dear,
    You always will find the May.
    We've had our May, my darling,
    And our roses, long ago;
    And the time of the year is come, my dear,
    For the long dark nights and the snow.

    But God is God, my faithful,
    Of night as well as of day;
    And we feel and know that we can go
    Wherever he leads the way.
    Ay, God of night, my darling!
    Of the night of death so grim;
    And the gate that from life leads out, good wife,
    Is the gate that leads to Him.

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