Short Poems

Poems About Memories

Each day you are making treasured memories. Let these poems about memories remind you that each and every day is an opportunity to make a memory that could last a lifetime. As time progresses memories become more precious and treasured. May these words be ones that will hopefully remind you to make treasured memories each and every day!

Share these poems to remind others to make memories every day.

Short Poems / Inspirational Poems / Treasured Memories - related: Memories Quotes

Memories of Life
Poem written by Greta Zwaan, � 1998

In a corner by the window with his memories' treasure store,
Sits a grandpa with a yearning to retrace life's steps once more.
For the years went by too quickly when his strength was at its prime,
And he didn't seem to value all his blessings at the time.

Youth to him displayed no ending, limitless was zest and zeal;
Vigorous were his daily conquests, work to him held great appeal.
E'er the sun rose to full glory or the birds awoke in song,
He had risen to his labours, yet the day seemed never long.

There was much to be accomplished and so many mouths to feed,
It took every waking moment to supply the family's need.
Yet the hours brought forth much pleasure as he tilled the ground each fall,
Ready for the early planting when once more he heard spring call.

Oh, the freshness of the morning when the dew lay on the soil
Brought to him tremendous pleasure, it was not considered toil.
To be straining every muscle as the team ploughed through the sod
Was a privilege he cherished, coming from the hand of God.

Through the planting and the haying and the sheaves of harvest grain,
Every year it was repeated, sometimes failure, sometimes gain.
Yet he never lost his interest, all his life was in his farm;
Nothing else had greater value, nothing else held forth more charm.

Through the years his body weakened, bit by bit his strength had gone,
And one day he could no longer rouse himself before the dawn.
So, with saddened heart he parted from the field, the horse, the plough,
And gave up his life of farming, far too strenuous for him now.

He packed up all his belongings that he'd need to live in town,
With the longings and desires that would never be put down.
Being physically unable did not change his heart's desire;
He had always been a farmer not a well-dressed country squire.

He would rather be in blue jeans with the soil beneath his feet,
Where he felt that life had meaning and his calling seemed complete.
Than to sit beside the window daily dreaming of the past,
Always wishing he was younger so his farming days might last.

But he knows time holds no preference and that strength with years grows weak,
Days of youth are not forever, yet the future is not bleak.
God has granted many blessings others never could enjoy:
To always be close to nature since he was a little boy.

Near to see His great creation, there to watch Him wake the sun;
Present as the birds were rousing, chirping music to each one.
There to see the autumn glory being painted on each tree,
Followed by the gleaming hoarfrost that the early risers see.

Very few folks have this privilege, with so vast a memory store,
Of a walk so close to nature for some sixty years or more.
Memories are the greatest treasure when a life has been so sweet,
And though time does not turn backward, memories' treasures are complete.

Each Day That Passes
Poet: Kate Summers, � 2020

Each day that passes by
A memory it does supply
What we do today
Determines if a memory will be okay.

Don't waste your days doing nothing
Enjoy the simplest of things
As when you look back you will see
You have a memory that fills you with glee.

You see yesterday is now a memory
That makes today seem secondary
But tomorrow can also bring
Memories of today that will make you sing.

So don't think what you do this day
Is not important in every way
A memory for tomorrow it will bring
So go out and enjoy living.

Our Finest Hope
Poet: George Eliot

The faith that life on earth is being shaped
To glorious ends; that order, justice, love.
Mean man's completeness, mean effect as sure
As roundness in the dewdrop, - that great faith
Is but the rushing and expanding stream
Of thought, of feeling, fed by all the past.
Our finest hope is finest memory.

Cherished Memories
Poet: Lucy M. Lewis

Treasured deep in memory's casket,
Is a gem that glitters bright,
And it shines with twofold splendor
As I sit alone tonight
Musing in the gathering twilight
While the shadows come and go:
I am thinking of my mother
And the happy long ago.

Oh, how well do I remember
When a happy child so free,
Knowing naught of care or sorrow;
Home was all the world to me.
Were I sick or tired and weary,
Quickly I to mother came;
For her gentle, fond caresses
Were a balm for every pain.

Day by day with patience toiling,
Busy at the spinning-wheel,
Stopping not for rest, though weary,
Life to her had grown so real;
When she felt her burdens heavy
And the nearer waters roll,
I could hear her sweetly singing
"Jesus lover of my soul."

Then when night had spread her mantle,
And our fond good-night was said,
She would gently tuck the cover
Round my little trundle-bed;
Duties of the day all ended,
When the house was calm and still,
Seated by the tallow candle,
Plied her needle with a will.

This was long ago, dear mother,
And your child is growing old;
Time has left its lines of care
On the brow once crowned with gold;
Yes, old Time is bearing onward
Down the stream my little bark;
Still the sweet words of the poet
Find an echo in my heart:
"Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight;
Make me a child again, just for tonight."

Memory
Poet: James Abram Garfield

'Tis beauteous night; the stars look brightly down
Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow.
No light gleams at the windows, save my own,
Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me.

And now with noiseless step sweet Memory comes
And leads me gently through her twilight realms.
What poet's tuneful lyre has ever sung
Or delicatest pencil e'er portrayed
The enchanted shadowy land where Memory dwells?

It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear,
Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress-tree;
And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathed
In heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs,
Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,

Are clustered joys serene of other days.
Upon its gentle sloping hillsides bend
The weeping willows o'er the sacred dust
Of dear departed ones; yet in that land,
Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore,

They that were sleeping rise from out the dust
Of death's long, silent years, and round us stand
As erst they did before the prison tomb
Received their clay within its voiceless halls.
The heavens that bend above that land are hung

With clouds of various hues: some dark and chill,
Surcharged with sorrow, cast their somber shade
Upon the sunny, joyous land below;
Others are floating through the dreamy air,
White as the falling snow, their margins tinged

With gold and crimson hues; their shadows fall
Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,
Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing.
When the rough battle of the day is done,
And evening's peace falls gently on the heart,

I bound away, across the noisy years,
Unto the utmost verge of Memory's land,
Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet.
And Memory dim with dark oblivion joins;
Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell

Upon the ear in childhood's early morn;
And, wandering thence along the rolling years,
I see the shadow of my former self
Gliding from childhood up to man's estate.
The path of youth winds down through many a vale,

And on the brink of many a dread abyss,
From out whose darkness comes no ray of light,
Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf
And beckons toward the verge; again the path
Leads o'er the summit where the sunbeams fall.

And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom,
Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along.

Old Year Memories
Poet: Susan E. Gammons

Let us forget the things that vexed and tried us,
The worrying things that caused our souls to fret;
The hopes that, cherished long, were still denied us,
Let us forget.

Let us forget the little slights that pained us,
The greater wrongs that rankle sometimes yet;
The pride with which some lofty one disdained us,
Let us forget.

Let us forget our brother's fault and failing,
The yielding to temptations that beset,
That the perchance, though grief be unavailing,
Can not forget.

But blessings manifold, past all deserving;
Kind words and thoughtful deeds, a countless throng;
The faults o'ercome, the rectitude unswerving,
Let us remember long.

The sacrifice of love, the generous giving
When friends were few, the handclasp warm and strong,
The fragrance of each life of holy living,
Let us remember long.

Whatever things were good and true and gracious,
Whate'er of right has triumphed over wrong,
What love of God or man has rendered precious,
Let us remember long.

So, pondering well the lessons it has taught us,
We tenderly may bid the year good-by,
Holding in memory the good it brought us,
Letting the evil die.

Oft In The Stilly Night
Poet: Thomas Moore

Oft in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings me light
Of other days around me:
The smiles, the tears
Of boyhood's years;
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimmed and gone;
The cheerful hearts now broken.
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all
The friends, so linked together,
I've seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed.
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

Mutability
Poet: J. H. Ashabranner

How soon the joys which we have known.
The treasures of our greener years,
Become with moss and rust o'ergrown,
Till scarce the sculptured name appears!

The relics of the past, though few,
Neglected lie within the heart;
The weeds of time conceal their hue,
Or but reveal the tints in part.

The plaything of the prattling boy
Is all the world to him today;
Tomorrow brings another toy,
For which he flings the old away.

But not alone to infant mind,
But to the gray-haired children too,
A toy appears of fair design,
Until replaced by something new.

And friends to whom we said adieu
And wept to clasp the parting hand
Fade from the memory, like the hue
Of words engraven on the sand.

The vows that made the parting sweet,
On memory's tablet yield their place
To words of love and smiles that meet
Reflection in a fairer face.

And love that we regard as true
Leaks into flame, and then expires,
Or bursts from other vents anew,
Relit by flames from other fires.

And yet I deem it well that such
Is life and all that it contains;
For Memory comes with softened touch
And brings to mind our lessened pains.

And oh, the past! the silent past!
What shudders seize the maddened brain
When scarce we dare to think, at last
The past might come to light again!

For deeply buried in the dust
Are secrets that we fain would keep;
Their tombs we guard with sacred trust
Till we, with them, lie down to sleep.