A collection of growing old poems to give you positive thoughts for the years passing by. People define growing old in many different ways. Sometimes we see younger people who are very old and sometimes we see older people who are very young.
Let the verses in these poems give you thoughts to reflect upon about growing old!
This poem could be considered one which
describes how others see us as we age, or it could be as we grow older it
is how we see ourselves! Written many years ago, the poet Walter Learned is
expressing his thoughts in these verses.
Growing Old
Poet: Walter Learned
Sweet sixteen is shy and cold,
Calls me "sir," and thinks me old;
Hears in an embarrassed way
All the compliments I pay;
Finds my homage quite a bore,
Will not smile on me, and more
To her taste she finds the noise
And the chat of callow boys.
Not the lines around my eye,
Deepening as the years go by;
Not white hairs that strew my head,
Nor my less elastic tread;
Cares I find, nor joys I miss,
Make me feel my years like this:
Sweet sixteen is shy and cold,
Calls me "sir," and thinks me old.
Let me grow lovely, growing old,
So many fine things do:
Laces, and ivory, and gold,
And silks need not be new;
And there is healing in old trees,
Old streets a glamour hold;
Why may not I, as well as these,
Grow lovely, growing old?
Some complain and some moan
As the years pass by you hear them groan
But age is all in your attitude
And by the things you say and do.
In life at every stage
We can focus on our age
But if age is put aside
We can take it all in stride.
Keep your attitude positive and bright
Take each day and look for the light
You see our attitude plays a big part
Of whether we are young or just an old fart.
Old is old at any age.
Old is when you quit asking questions about this, that, and everything.
Old is when you forget how to love-or worse, don't care.
Old is when you don't want to dance anymore.
Old is when you don't want to learn anything new except how to be old.
Old is when people tell you that you are old-and you believe them.
Oh, say not so! A bright old age is thine,
Calm as the gentle light of summer eves,
Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves;
Because to thee is given, in thy decline,
A heart that does not thanklessly repine
At aught of which the hand of God bereaves,
Yet all he sends with gratitude receives.
May such a quiet, thankful close be mine!
And hence thy fireside chair appears to me
A peaceful throne - which thou wert formed to fill;
Thy children ministers who do thy will;
And those grandchildren, sporting round thy knee,
Thy little subjects, looking up to thee
As one who claims their fond allegiance still.