85 Poems about Memories to Recall Old Time

There are many different types of memories that we all hold. Some may be happy and others may be sad, but they are all a part of our lives.

Poems about memories can help us to remember the good times, as well as the bad.

Memories poems can also remind us of the people who have been a part of our lives, and how much they mean to us.

Whether you are looking for a poem about childhood memories, or one that reflects on more recent events, there is sure to be something out there that resonates with you.

We hope that you find comfort and peace in these poems about memories. So, take a trip down memory lane and dive into these touching verses today!

You May Also Be Interested In:

• poems about home
• poems about lying
• poems about change

Famous Poems about Memories

Regardless of whether they are good or bad, memories are an important part of who we are. The following famous poems about memories explore the theme of memory from different perspectives.

1. Memories

       by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Oft I remember those whom I have known
In other days, to whom my heart was led
As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
But absent, and their memories overgrown
With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
As graves with grasses are, and at their head
The stone with moss and lichens so o’erspread,
Nothing is legible but the name alone.
And is it so with them? After long years,
Do they remember me in the same way,
And is the memory pleasant as to me?
I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my fears?
Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay,
And yet the root perennial may be.

2. Home Memories

       by Kate Slaughter Mckinney

I am thinking of a cottage
Where the roses used to bloom,
How they talked beside the pavement
In low whispers of perfume,
Or climbed up beside the window
To look in my little room.
I am thinking of the door-way
Where the vine I used to train,
That snowed down its flaky petals
With a pleasant summer rain;
Where I used to sit and listen
To the old mill’s low refrain.
I’m thinking of the sunflower, too,
That towered above the gate;
Of the friends who called me hither
When the day was cool and late.
Ah! those hours seem so distant
And the year, an ancient date.
I am thinking of the grape-vine
Where the crippled robin fed,
How he lingered there each morning
’Till fresh crumbs for him were spread.
Is he feeding there this summer
From a stranger’s hand, instead?
I am thinking of the children
Who crept to the little yard,
Begging me to grant permission
That they play upon the sward.
Could I bar them from the entry?
Thus might Heaven me discard.
I am thinking of a morning
That wrung from my heart a sigh,
When I kissed warm lips that trembled,
With a tear-drop in my eye;
While I closed our cottage windows
And pronounced the word—good-bye.

3. Break, Break, Break

       by Alfred Tennyson

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
Oh, well for the fisherman’s boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
Oh, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But oh for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

4. The Place Where I Was Born

       by James W. Whilt

There’s a little old log cabin,
And its walls have fallen down,
Snow has broken down its rafters,
Not one log that’s left is sound.
The brush obscures the doorway,
Everything looks so forlorn,
‘Tis the little old log cabin,
The place where I was born—
Briers o’errun the pathway
Which leads to the crystal spring,
That cradled the tiny brooklet
Where the oriole used to sing.
The hills are fields and pastures
Where I roamed when but a child;
It was all unbroken forest,
And it stretched out far and wild.
The meadows ran in wavelets,
When the wind so wild and free
Blew o’er their level surface
Like a green and billowy sea.
There was childhood’s shout and laughter
Within that cabin small;
But to me it was a palace,
With wide and stately hall.
Our pleasures there were sweeter
Than a rose without a thorn,
In that little old log cabin,—
The place where I was born.
Oh! the little old log cabin!
Where the air was sweet and cool,
Where our school-house was the forest,
And we went to Nature’s school;
Could I but re-trace my footsteps
Over life’s uncertain road,
Could I go back to that cabin,
Lighter far would be my load.

5. A Remembrance

       by Bliss Carman

Here in lovely New England
When summer is come, a sea-turn
Flutters a page of remembrance
In the volume of long ago.
Soft is the wind over Grand Pré,
Stirring the heads of the grasses,
Sweet is the breath of the orchards
White with their apple-blow.
There at their infinite business
Of measuring time forever,
Murmuring songs of the sea,
The great tides come and go.
Over the dikes and the uplands
Wander the great cloud shadows,
Strange as the passing of sorrow,
Beautiful, solemn, and slow.
For, spreading her old enchantment
Of tender ineffable wonder,
Summer is there in the Northland!
How should my heart not know?

6. The Treasure

       by Rupert Brooke

When colour goes home into the eyes,
And lights that shine are shut again
With dancing girls and sweet birds’ cries
Behind the gateways of the brain;
And that no-place which gave them birth, shall close
The rainbow and the rose:—
Still may Time hold some golden space
Where I’ll unpack that scented store
Of song and flower and sky and face,
And count, and touch, and turn them o’er,
Musing upon them; as a mother, who
Has watched her children all the rich day through
Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,
When children sleep, ere night.

7. Memories, Photos And Dreams

       by Carra Wilmoth

Captured memories
stare back at me
from the pictures in this book
happy smiles
set against blue skies
vacations taken when we were young
the dreams of childhood
forgotten for awhile
then remembered with a rueful smile
I wanted to be an astronaut
a dancer
a fireman
an actress of the first order
my name in lights
my feet on the stage
fame
fortune
easy life
but, those were just childish dreams
never worked for
never realized
but tucked away
here in my book of
memories
photos
and dreams

8. The Old Home Barn

       by Edward Henry Elwell

Yes, ’tis the same! The old home barn!
Scene of my boyhood plays;
How many memories, sweet and sad,
Rise up from those old days.
Through the open door again I ride
On hayrack heaped full high,
And toss to the mow the fragrant store,
Born of the summer sky.
I leap from the beam, and, buried deep,
Emerge with laugh and shout;
Hunt in the hay the stolen nest,
The hidden eggs seek out.
Old Dobbin neighs from behind his crib,
I hear the oxen’s tread,
The breath of the kine comes sweet to me—
But where is the colt I fed?
On the floor the hens are scratching still;
The stout farm-wagon, too, is there;
The carryall that carried all
In state to the county fair.
How rung the barn with merry glee
When the husking-bee came round,
And cheeks were aglow with blushes deep,
When the bright red ears were found.
Through the open door, across the road,
A picture framed I see,
The fields, the wood, the hills afar,
That hid the world from me.
What lay beyond I pondered deep,
A realm most fair it seemed;
And much I wished to tread its ways
Of which I long had dreamed.
I’ve wandered far; the world so wide,
That still has lured me on,
Ne’er gave to me a scene so fair
As that I gaze upon.
The old home barn, in boyhood’s days,
A pleasure palace reared;
To-day it stands a temple filled
With memories e’er endeared.
O Artist of the magic wand
Which thus recalls the past,
Your work shall hang in memory’s hall
So long as life shall last.

9. Within These Walls

       by Gloria Sarasin

I feel your presence in each room
As if these walls could to me speak.
Your memory lingers within these walls
That seem to not want me to leave.
Your picture sits upon the mantle
And on your pillow at night I sleep.
I seem to feel you everywhere
And wonder if these walls have eyes.
I feel a prisoner entrapped within
For from these walls I find no out.
So each passing day, in here remain,
Within these walls that hold your memory.

10. Forgetfulness

       by James Russell Lowell

There’s a haven of sure rest
From the loud world’s bewildering stress
As a bird dreaming on her nest,
As dew hid in a rose’s breast,
As Hesper in the glowing West;
So the heart sleeps
In thy calm deeps,
Serene Forgetfulness!
No sorrow in that place may be,
The noise of life grows less and less:
As moss far down within the sea,
As, in white lily caves, a bee,
As life in a hazy reverie;
So the heart’s wave
In thy dim cave,
Hushes, Forgetfulness!
Duty and care fade far away
What toil may be we cannot guess:
As a ship anchored in the bay,
As a cloud a summer-noon astray,
As water-blooms in a breezeless day;
So, ‘neath thine eyes,
The full heart lies,
And dreams, Forgetfulness!

Inspirational Poems about Memories

In this section, you will find a selection of inspirational poems about memories. These poems capture the joy, pain, and beauty that comes with remembering the past.

1. The Fire-Flies in the Wheat

       by Harriet Prescott Spofford

Ah, never of a summer night
Will life again be half as sweet
As in that country of delight
Where straying, staying, with happy feet,
We watched the fire-flies in the wheat.
Full dark and deep the starless night,
Still throbbing with the summer heat;
There was no ray of any light,
But dancing, glancing, far and fleet,
Only the fire-flies in the wheat.
In that great country of delight,
Where youth and love the borders meet,
We paused and lingered for the sight,
While sparkling, darkling, flashed the sheet
Of splendid fire-flies in the wheat.
That night the earth seemed but a height
Whereon to rest our happy feet,
Watching one moment that wide flight
Where lightening, brightening, mount and meet
Those burning fire-flies in the wheat.
What whispered words whose memory might
Make an old heart with madness beat,
Whose sense no music can recite,
That chasing, racing, rhythmic beat
Sings out with fire-flies in the wheat.
O never of such blest despite
Dreamed I, whom fate was wont to cheat—
And like a star your face, and white—
While mingling, tingling, wild as sleet,
Stormed all those fire-flies through the wheat.
Though of that country of delight
The farther bounds we shall not greet,
Still, sweet of all, that summer night,
That maddest, gladdest night most sweet,
Watching the fire-flies in the wheat!

2. The Old Oaken Bucket

       by Samuel Woodworth.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e’en the rude bucket that hung in the well―
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure,
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well―
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell.
As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well―
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!

3. My Treasure

       by Arthur Weir

“What do you gather?” the maiden said,
Shaking her sunlit curls at me—
“See, these flowers I plucked are dead,
Ah! misery.”
“What do you gather?” the miser said,
Clinking his gold, as he spoke to me—
“I cannot sleep at night for dread
Of thieves,” said he.
“What do you gather?” the dreamer said,
“I dream dreams of what is to be;
Daylight comes, and my dreams are fled,
Ah! woe is me.”
“What do you gather?” the young man said—
“I seek fame for eternity,
Toiling on while the world’s abed,
Alone,” said he.
“What do I gather?” I laughing said,
“Nothing at all save memory,
Sweet as flowers, but never dead,
Like thine, Rosie.”
“I have no fear of thieves,” I said,
“Daylight kills not my reverie,
Fame will find I am snug abed,
That comes to me.”
“The past is my treasure, friends,” I said,
“Time but adds to my treasury,
Happy moments are never fled
Away from me.”
“All one needs to be rich,” I said,
“Is to live that his past shall be
Sweet in his thoughts, as a wild rose red,
Eternally.”

4. I.

       by Christopher Pearse Cranch

Ah, many a time our memory slips aside
And leaves the round of present cares and joys,
To live again the time when we were boys;
To call our parents back with love and pride;
To see again the dear ones who have died;
To dream once more amid the household toys,
The sports, the jests, the masquerades, the noise,
The blaze and sparkle of the wood fireside;
The books, the drawings, and the merry press
Around the blithe tea-board; the evenings long;
Rattling backgammon and still, solemn chess;
And best of all when instrument and song
Bore us to visionary lands and streams,
And crowned our nights with coronals of dreams.

5. Memories of Time

       by Catherine Pulsifer

Time, like a gentle stream, passes effortlessly
But life has left us with beautiful memories

Though time can be relentless and years go on by
We find ourselves surrounded by their sweet lullaby

The laughter heard and yearnings felt, the love we shared,
Keeps hope alive and remind us that memories are not rare.

Each day brings new beginnings to help us grow
And no matter what happens, these stories will always show

We’ll keep taking steps forward as our moments unfold
Giving us memories that are precious to behold.

6. Places

       by Sara Teasdale

Places I love come back to me like music,
Hush me and heal me when I am very tired;
I see the oak woods at Saxton’s flaming
In a flare of crimson by the frost newly fired;
And I am thirsty for the spring in the valley
As for a kiss ungiven and long desired.
I know a bright world of snowy hills at Boonton,
A blue and white dazzling light on everything one sees,
The ice-covered branches of the hemlocks sparkle
Bending low and tinkling in the sharp thin breeze,
And iridescent crystals fall and crackle on the snow-crust
With the winter sun drawing cold blue shadows from the trees.
Violet now, in veil on veil of evening
The hills across from Cromwell grow dreamy and far;
A wood-thrush is singing soft as a viol
In the heart of the hollow where the dark pools are;
The primrose has opened her pale yellow flowers
And heaven is lighting star after star.
Places I love come back to me like music—
Mid-ocean, midnight, the waves buzz drowsily;
In the ship’s deep churning the eerie phosphorescence
Is like the souls of people who were drowned at sea,
And I can hear a man’s voice, speaking, hushed, insistent,
At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me.

7. An Evening’s Stroll

       by Ed Blair

When July’s sun has spent her fierceness on
The sweltering earth; I love to ramble then
Along the narrow banks of dear Elm Creek
And be for one short hour a boy again.
To make the rocks skip o’er the waters smooth
And see the frogs plunge from the water’s edge,
And hear the gentle cooing of the dove
Among the elms and from the distant hedge.
Oh, boyhood days ne’er come so near to me
As in these strolls in Summer eve’s twilight;
I view again the scenes I love so well
And watch the gentle coming of the night.

8. Our Finest Hope

       by 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.

Short Poems about Memories

This section is dedicated to short poems about memories. Whether good or bad, our memories shape who we are and how we think. They can make us laugh or cry, but they always remind us of the past.

1. This Was in The White of the Year

       by Emily Dickinson

This was in the white of the year,
That was in the green,
Drifts were as difficult then to think
As daisies now to be seen.
Looking back is best that is left,
Or if it be before,
Retrospection is prospect’s half,
Sometimes almost more.

2. With Flowers

       by Emily Dickinson

If recollecting were forgetting,
Then I remember not;
And if forgetting, recollecting,
How near I had forgot!
And if to miss were merry,
And if to mourn were gay,
How very blithe the fingers
That gathered these to-day!

3. On Memory

       by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

Life is sweeten’d by thy power,
And the fallen years return,
Draws the eurtain from an hour,
Thither we a lesson learn.
Take the veil from former years,
Brightens eyes bedim’d with grief,
Sooths our sorrows and our tears,
Thither may we find relief.
Mem’ry cheers in joy or wo,
Though our earthly hopes are riven,
Though our tears awhile may flow,
Soon our bark may rest in heaven.

4. Remembrance

       by Emily Dickinson

Remembrance has a rear and front, —
‘T is something like a house;
It has a garret also
For refuse and the mouse,
Besides, the deepest cellar
That ever mason hewed;
Look to it, by its fathoms
Ourselves be not pursued.

5. Inevitably

       by Georgia Douglas Johnson

There’s nothing in the world that clings
As does a memory that stings;
While happy hours fade and pass,
Like shadows in a looking-glass.

6. A Thought Went Up My Mind To-Day

       by Emily Dickinson

A thought went up my mind to-day
That I have had before,
But did not finish, — some way back,
I could not fix the year,

Nor where it went, nor why it came
The second time to me,
Nor definitely what it was,
Have I the art to say.

But somewhere in my soul, I know
I’ve met the thing before;
It just reminded me — ‘t was all —
And came my way no more.

7. What Need Have I for Memory?

       by Georgia Douglas Johnson

What need have I for memory,
When not a single flower
Has bloomed within life’s desert
For me, one little hour.
What need have I for memory
Whose burning eyes have met
The corse of unborn happiness
Winding the trail regret?

8. A Memory

       by William Stanley Braithwaite

My heart to thee an answer makes,
O long, slow whisper of the sea,
Whose charm of mournful music wakes
A dream, a memory.
Touched hands, met lips, and soft fair speech —
Soul’s silence to the past replies,
When love and hope illumined each,
Within a girl’s blue eyes.

9. Cherished Memories

       by Catherine Pulsifer

Memories are like stars in the night,
Every moment with grandkids bright,
Time fades away, so make it last,
For happy laughing memories of our past.

No time wasted on silly fights,
Grandkids are our pride and delight.
Treasure each moment full of glee,
Cherish memories as they grow so quickly.

Long Poems about Memories

These long poetries about memories reflect on different types of memories, including happy memories, sad memories, and memories of loved ones.

1. In the Afternoon

       by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

Wind of the summer afternoon,
Hush, for my heart is out of tune!
Hush, for thou movest restlessly
The too light sleeper, Memory!
Whate’er thou hast to tell me, yet
‘Twere something sweeter to forget,—
Sweeter than all thy breath of balm
An hour of unremembering calm!
Blowing over the roofs, and down
The bright streets of this inland town,
These busy crowds, these rocking trees—
What strange note hast thou caught from these?
A note of waves and rushing tides,
Where past the dikes the red flood glides,
To brim the shining channels far
Up the green plains of Tantramar.
Once more I snuff the salt, I stand
On the long dikes of Westmoreland;
I watch the narrowing flats, the strip
Of red clay at the water’s lip;
Far off the net-reels, brown and high,
And boat-masts slim against the sky;
Along the ridges of the dikes
Wind-beaten scant sea-grass, and spikes
Of last year’s mullein; down the slopes
To landward, in the sun, thick ropes
Of blue vetch, and convolvulus,
And matted roses glorious.
The liberal blooms o’erbrim my hands;
I walk the level, wide marsh-lands;
Waist-deep in dusty-blossomed grass
I watch the swooping breezes pass
In sudden, long, pale lines, that flee
Up the deep breast of this green sea.
I listen to the bird that stirs
The purple tops, and grasshoppers
Whose summer din, before my feet
Subsiding, wakes on my retreat.
Again the droning bees hum by;
Still-winged, the gray hawk wheels on high
I drink again the wild perfumes,
And roll, and crush the grassy blooms.
Blown back to olden days, I fain
Would quaff the olden joys again;
But all the olden sweetness not
The old unmindful peace hath brought.
Wind of this summer afternoon,
Thou hast recalled my childhood’s June;
My heart—still is it satisfied
By all the golden summer-tide?
Hast thou one eager yearning filled,
Or any restless throbbing stilled,
Or hast thou any power to bear
Even a little of my care?—
Ever so little of this weight
Of weariness canst thou abate?
Ah, poor thy gift indeed, unless
Thou bring the old child-heartedness,—
And such a gift to bring is given,
Alas, to no wind under heaven!
Wind of the summer afternoon,
Be still; my heart is not in tune.
Sweet is thy voice; but yet, but yet—
Of all ’twere sweetest to forget!

2. Bill And Joe

       by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Come, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by—
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright as morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.
Your name may flaunt a titled trail
Proud as a cockerel’s rainbow tail,
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O’Shanter’s luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.
You’ve won the great world’s envied prize,
And grand you look in people’s eyes,
With HON. and LL. D.,
In big, brave letters fair to see,—
Your fist, old fellow! Off they go!—
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?
You’ve worn the judge’s ermined robe;
You’ve taught your name to half the globe;
You’ve sung mankind a deathless strain;
You’ve made the dead past live again:
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.
The chaffing young folks stare and say,
“See those old buffers, bent and gray;
They talk like fellows in their teens;
Mad, poor old boys! That’s what it means”
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe—
How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time’s disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,—
Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill,
As Joe looks fondly up to Bill.
Ah! pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind’s fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe.
The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go—
How vain it seems, this empty show!—
Till all at once his pulses thrill:
‘T is poor old Joe’s, “God bless you, Bill!”
And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears;
In some sweet lull of heart and song
For earth born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
When this was Bill, and that was Joe?
No matter; while our home is here,
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.

3. The Consignment

       by Hannah Flagg Gould

Fire, my hand is on the key,
And the cabinet must ope!
I shall now consign to thee,
Things of grief, of joy, of hope.
Treasured secrets of the heart
To thy care I hence entrust:
Not a word must thou impart,
But reduce them all to dust.
This—in childhood’s rosy morn,
This was gaily filled and sent.
Childhood is for ever gone;
Here—devouring element.
This was friendship’s cherished pledge;
Friendship took a colder form:
Creeping on its gilded edge,
May the blaze be bright and warm!
These—the letter and the token,
Never more shall meet my view!
When the faith has once been broken,
Let the memory perish too!
This—’t was penned while purest joy
Warmed the heart and lit the eye:
Fate that peace did soon destroy;
And its transcript now will I!
This must go! for, on the seal
When I broke the solemn yew,
Keener was the pang than steel;
‘T was a heart-string breaking too!
Here comes up the blotted leaf,
Blistered o’er by many a tear.
Hence! thou waking shade of grief!
Go, for ever disappear!
This is his, who seemed to be
High as heaven, and fair as light;
But the visor rose, and he—
Spare, O memory! spare the sight
Of the face that frowned beneath,
While I take it, hand and name,
And entwine it with a wreath
Of the purifying flame!
These—the hand is in the grave,
And the soul is in the skies,
Whence they came! ‘T is pain to save
Cold remains of sundered ties!
Go together, all, and burn,
Once the treasures of my heart!
Still, my breast shall be an urn
To preserve your better part!

4. The Old Sampler

       by M. E. Sangster

Out of the way, in a corner
Of our dear old attic room,
Where bunches of herbs from the hillside
Shake ever a faint perfume,
An oaken chest is standing,
With hasp and padlock and key,
Strong as the hands that made it
On the other side of the sea.
When the winter days are dreary,
And we’re out of heart with life,
Of its crowding cares aweary,
And sick of its restless strife,
We take a lesson in patience
From the attic corner dim,
Where the chest still holds its treasures,
A warder faithful and grim.
Robes of an antique fashion,
Linen and lace and silk,
That time has tinted with saffron,
Though once they were white as milk;
Wonderful baby garments,
‘Boidered with loving care
By fingers that felt the pleasure,
As they wrought the ruffles fair;
A sword, with the red rust on it,
That flashed in the battle tide,
When from Lexington to Yorktown
Sorely men’s souls were tried;
A plumed chapeau and a buckle,
And many a relic fine,
And, an by itself, the sampler,
Framed in with berry and vine.
Faded the square of canvas,
And dim is the silken thread,
But I think of white hands dimpled,
And a childish, sunny head;
For here in cross and in tent stitch,
In a wreath of berry and vine,
She worked it a hundred years ago,
“Elizabeth, Aged Nine.”
In and out in the sunshine,
The little needle flashed,
And in and out on the rainy day,
When the merry drops down plashed,
As close she sat by her mother,
The little Puritan maid,
And did her piece in the sampler,
While the other children played.
You are safe in the beautiful heaven,
“Elizabeth, aged nine;”
But before you went you had troubles
Sharper than any of mine.
Oh, the gold hair turned with sorrow
White as the drifted snow.
And your tears dropped here where I’m standing,
On this very plumed chapeau.
When you put it away, its wearer
Would need it nevermore,
By a sword thrust learning the secrets
God keeps on yonder shore;
And you wore your grief like glory,
You would not yield supine,
Who wrought in your patient childhood,
“Elizabeth, Aged Nine.”
Out of the way, in a corner,
With hasp and padlock and key,
Stands the oaken chest of my fathers
That came from over the sea;
And the hillside herbs above it
Shake odors fragrant and fine,
And here on its lid is a garland
To “Elizabeth, aged nine.”
For love is of the immortal,
And patience is sublime,
And trouble a thing of every day,
And touching every time;
And childhood sweet and sunny,
And womanly truth and grace,
Ever call light life’s darkness
And bless earth’s lowliest place.

5. The Dream

       by Hannah Flagg Gould

I dreamed, and ‘t was a lovely, blessed dream,
That I again my native hills had found,
The mossy rocks, the valley, and the stream
That used to hold me captive to its sound.
I was a child again—I roamed anew
About my early haunts, and saw the whole
That fades, with waking memory, from the view
Of this mysterious thing we call the soul
A very child, again beside the brook,
I made my puny hand a cup to dip
Among the sparkling waters, where I took
Its hollow full and brought it to my lip.
And oh! that cooling draught I still can taste,
And feel it in the spirit and the flesh.
‘T is like a fount, that in the desert waste
Leaps out, the weary pilgrim to refresh.
The spice of other days was borne along,
From shrub and forest, on the balmy breeze;
I heard my warbling wild bird’s tender song
Come sweet and thrilling through the rustling trees.
All was restored, as in the sunny day
When I believed my little, rural ground
The centre of the world, whose limits lay
Just where the bright horizon hemmed it round.
And she, who was my sister then, but now,
What she may be, the pure immortals know,
Who, round the throne of the Eternal bow,
And bathe in glory veiled from all below.
But she was there, who, with her riper years,
Once walked, the guardian of my infant feet;
Drew from my hand the thorn, wiped off my tears,
And brought fresh flowers to deck our grassy seat.
I saw her cheek with life’s warm current flushed;
Clung to the fingers that used to hold;
Heard the loved voice that is for ever hushed;
And felt the form that long ago was cold.
All I have been and known, in all the years
Since I was sporting in that cherished spot,
My hopes, my joys, my wishes and my tears,
As only dreamings, were alike forgot.
‘T was this that made my dream so blest and bright,
And me the careless thing that I was then.
Yet, Time, I would not now reverse thy flight,
And risk the running of my race again.
The fairest joys that struck their roots in earth
I would not rear again, to bloom and fade!
I’ve had them once, in their ideal worth;
Their height I’ve measured, and their substance weighed.
Nor those, who sleep in peace, would I awake
To have their hearts with time’s delusions filled;
The seal, that God has set, I would not break;
Nor call the voice to lips that he has stilled.
And yet I love my dream—’t was very sweet
To be among my native hills again;
Where my light heart was borne by infant feet,
The careless, blissful creature I was then!
Whene’er I think of it, the warm tears roll,
Uncalled, and unforbidden, down my cheek;
But not for joy, or sorrow. O my soul,
Thy nature, power, or purpose, who can speak?

6. Memories of Life

       by Greta Zwaan

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.

7. Cherished Memories

       by 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.”

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.”

8. Memory

       by 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.

Poems about Memories That Rhyme

Here, we have a collection of poems about memories with rhyme. They are all written by different authors, and each have their own style and perspective.

1. Keepsake Mill

       by Robert Louis Stevenson

Over the borders, a sin without pardon,
Breaking the branches and crawling below,
Out through the breach in the wall of the garden,
Down by the banks of the river, we go.
Here is the mill with the humming of thunder,
Here is the weir with the wonder of foam,
Here is the sluice with the race running under—
Marvellous places, though handy to home!
Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller,
Stiller the note of the birds on the hill;
Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller,
Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill.
Years may go by, and the wheel in the river
Wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day,
Wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever
Long after all of the boys are away.
Home from the Indies and home from the ocean,
Heroes and soldiers we all shall come home;
Still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion,
Turning and churning that river to foam.
You with the bean that I gave when we quarrelled,
I with your marble of Saturday last,
Honoured and old and all gaily apparelled,
Here we shall meet and remember the past.

2. Rain on the Roof

       by Coates Kinney

When the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears,
‘Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed,
And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.
Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart,
And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start;
And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof,
As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.
There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone,
To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn.
I can see her bending o’er me, as I listen to the strain
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair,
And her bright-eyed, cherub brother—a serene, angelic pair—
Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof,
As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.
And another comes to thrill me with her eyes’ delicious blue,
I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue,
I remember that I loved her as I ne’er may love again,
And my heart’s quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.
There is naught in art’s bravuras that can work with such a spell,
In the spirit’s pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions swell,
As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain,
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain!

3. The Old Mill by the River

       by Isaac McLellan

Here in the years when life was bright
With dewy mornings and sunset light,
In the pleasant season of leafy June,
In each idle, holiday afternoon
I lov’d to wander with willow wand—
I lov’d on the river border to stand
And take the trout or the yellow bream
That leap’d, that glanc’d athwart the stream.
With broken window, with hingeless door,
Thro’ which the slanting sunbeams pour;
With leaning gable, and settling wall,
O’er which the draperied ivies fall;
With rafter moldy, worm-eaten beam,
O’er which the silken cobwebs stream,
Fast by the river-banks serene
The old forsaken mill is seen.
Its roof shows many a chasm and rent,
Its creaking vane is crack’d and bent,
In and out the swallows fly
Under the eaves their dwellings lie.
The leather-wing’d bats, when day is dim,
Thro’ vacant rooms and granaries skim;
Its shingles that ages ago were new,
Splendid with painters’ lavish hue,
Are faded now and swing in the gale,
Scarce held by the loosen’d rusty nail;
The clapboards rattle and clank amain
In gusts of the snow-fall and the rain,
For the dust of many a lapsing year
Hath writ its wasteful chronicle here.
The dam o’er which the waters pour
Is settling and crumbling by the shore;
The slippery logs and mossy stone
Yield to the current one by one;
And swift thro’ many a rent abyss
The spouting rivulets foam and hiss,
And soon must the crazy fabric decay,
And the torrent sweep uncheck’d away.
The water-wheel so black and vast,
With beam like a battle-vessel’s mast
That once would churn with mighty sweep
The boiling waters so dark and deep,
Lies now a wreck in humbled pride,
Trembling with each assault of the tide.
Under the crumbling, blacken’d wheel
The crystal bubbles circle and reel;
Over and under the eddies boil
Round molder’d timber and rotting post;
In many a circling ripple they coil
In sudden plunge, in wild turmoil,
Now seen an instant, then quickly lost.

4. Accomplished Care

       by Edgar A. Guest

All things grow lovely in a little while,
The brush of memory paints a canvas fair;
The dead face through the ages wears a smile,
And glorious becomes accomplished care.
There’s nothing ugly that can live for long,
There’s nothing constant in the realm of pain;
Right always comes to take the place of wrong,
Who suffers much shall find the greater gain.
Life has a kindly way, despite its tears
And all the burdens which its children bear;
It crowns with beauty all the troubled years
And soothes the hurts and makes their memory fair.
Be brave when days are bitter with despair,
Be true when you are made to suffer wrong;
Life’s greatest joy is an accomplished care,
There’s nothing ugly that can live for long.

5. New-Mown Hay

       by Margaret E. Sangster

Sweet, oh sweet, from the fields to-day
Wafts the breath of the new-mown hay.
Sewing away in a happy dream,
I sit in the porch with my long white seam.
The very silence is like a tune,
Sung to the golden afternoon.
While the house is still, and the meadows lie
Fast asleep ‘neath the radiant sky.
Only at intervals, now and then,
I hear the farmer call to his men.
And the farmer’s voice is dear to me
As ever a mortal voice can be.
You may talk of the love of youth and maid,
Of two in childhood, perhaps, who played
Together by rill and fount and tree,
Till their hearts had grown one heart to be;
You may tell of the loyal faith and life
Of the husband dear and the gentle wife;
But the widowed mother leans closest on
The tender strength of her only son.
Ah! what if that farmer of mine one day
Should seek him a bride, as well he may,
And bring her home! Would I be loath,
Mother and friend, to live for both?
For somehow the scent of the new-mown hay
Carries me back to a far-off day,
When my silver hair was in waves of brown,
When my bashful glances kept looking down,
And swift to my cheek, in a sudden red,
Mounted the blush, at a soft word said.
Truly the days of my youth were sweet,
Ere the path was rough to my toiling feet.
Truly the morning of life was blest,
And yet in sooth is the evening best;
For I’ve learned the lesson that joys must fly,
And the proudest hopes, like flowers, die.
But God abides in his heaven, and he
Will never forget to care for me.
Sweet, oh sweet, is the new-mown hay,
Wafting its breath from the fields to-day.
Sweet is the golden afternoon,
With its silence rhythmic as a tune,
And dear to the soul is the calm content
Of hours in grateful trusting spent.

6. A Fool’s Wish

       by Anonymous

I wish I could be the kind of fool I was in the days of yore,
When people could send me on idiotic errands to the store.
When I found the purse tied to a string, and discovered the sugar was salt,
And tried to pick up the county line for jolly Uncle Walt.
For now I’m a fool of a different sort, a less desirable kind,
The fashion of fool that dabbles in stocks and leaves his earnings behind;
The fool that toils for a hunk of gold and misses the only wealth;
The fool that sells for the bubble of fame his happiness and health.
Yes, now you behold in me the fool, the melancholy fool
Who has to go back, with his temples gray, to the very primary school.
And learn the fundamentals of life, the simple, essential things.
The body that lives and the mind that and the soul that trusts and sings.
And would I could be the kind of fool I was in the olden days,
The fool that would fall for an open trick and be fooled in those innocent ways.
I would give the whole of my bank account and the worldly success I am,
If I could go to the kitchen door to look for the gooseberry jamb!

7. The Old Homestead

       by William Henry Venable

Enshrined among roses
The Homestead reposes
With vines mantled o’er;
Ground-ivy and clover
Are running all over
The stone at the door.
Pinks, lilies, are blowing,
Blue violets showing
Gold hearts to the June;
Bees going and coming
Keep evermore humming
Their Hyblean tune.
‘Twas here that I wasted
Youth’s flower and tasted
Love’s first honey-dew;
A boy here I slumbered,
By care unencumbered,
Long, balmy nights through.
The wood-birds each morning
Gave musical warning
For shadows to fly;
Their rhapsody choral
Foretold the auroral
First flush of the sky.
With rising emotion
Akin to devotion
The scene I behold;—
With fond recollections
Of tender affections
Too sweet to be told.

8. You Will Forget Me

       by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

You will forget me. The years are so tender,
They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep;
This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendor
Fades from the skies when the sun sinks to sleep;
The cloud of forgetfulness, over and over
Will banish the last rosy colors away,
And the fingers of time will weave garlands to cover
The scar which you think is a life-mark to-day.
You will forget me. The one boon you covet
Now above all things will soon seem no prize,
And the heart, which you hold not in keeping to prove it
True or untrue, will lose worth in your eyes.
The one drop today, that you deem only wanting
To fill your life-cup to the brim, soon will seem
But a valueless mite; and the ghost that is haunting
The aisles of your heart will pass out with the dream.
You will forget me; will thank me for saying
The words which you think are so pointed with pain.
Time loves a new lay; and the dirge he is playing
Will change for you soon to a livelier strain.
I shall pass from your life—I shall pass out forever,
And these hours we have spent will be sunk in the past.
Youth buries its dead; grief kills seldom or never—
And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last.

9. Memories of Laughter

       by Catherine Pulsifer

Memories so sweet, we do not forget.
Filled with laughter, good times with no regrets.
Surrounded by the love of family and friends,
May moments and memories of laughter never end.

Life passes so quickly, in an ever twisting-direction,
Moments spent together are those that get our affection!
We’ll cherish the memories for many years to come,
Laughter and smiles make our hearts hum.

Poems about Memories for Funerals

Poetry can be a beautiful and healing way to remember your loved one and honor their life. Here are some memories poems to say goodbye at a funeral that may help you in your time of loss.

1. Gone but Not Forgotten

       by Anonymous

Gone but not forgotten
Your memories will forever remain
Gone but not forgotten
In our hearts, you will stay
Gone but not forgotten
We will cherish your unconditional love
Gone but not forgotten
As you spread your wings to be with the Lord above.

2. The Broken Chain

       by Ron Tranmer

I little knew that morning. God was going to call your name,
In life I loved you dearly, in death I do the same.
It broke my heart to lose you, you did not go alone,
for part of me went with you, the day God called you home.
You left me beautiful memories your love is still my guide,
and though we cannot see you, you’re always at my side.
Our family chain is broken and nothing seems the same,
but as God calls us one by one, the chain will link again.

3. Trying to Forget

       by Emily Dickinson

Bereaved of all, I went abroad,
No less bereaved to be
Upon a new peninsula, —
The grave preceded me,
Obtained my lodgings ere myself,
And when I sought my bed,
The grave it was, reposed upon
The pillow for my head.
I waked, to find it first awake,
I rose, — it followed me;
I tried to drop it in the crowd,
To lose it in the sea,
In cups of artificial drowse
To sleep its shape away, —
The grave was finished, but the spade
Remained in memory.

4. Loving Memories

       by Anonymous

Your gentle face and patient smile
With sadness we recall,
You had a kindly word for each
And died beloved by all.
The voice is mute and stilled the heart
That loved us well and true,
Ah, bitter was the trial to part
From one so good as you.
You are not forgotten loved one
Nor will you ever be,
As long as life and memory last
We will remember thee.
We miss you now, our hearts are sore,
As time goes by we miss you more.
Your loving smile, your gentle face,
No one can fill your empty place.

5. Sonnet XXX

       by William Shakespeare

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear times’ waste;
Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.

6. The Fallen Limb

       by Anonymous

A limb has fallen from the family tree.
I keep hearing a voice that says, “Grieve not for me.
Remember the best times, the laughter, the song.
The good life I lived while I was strong.
Continue my heritage, I’m counting on you.
Keep smiling and surely the sun will shine through.
My mind is at ease, my soul is at rest.
Remembering all, how I truly was blessed.
Continue traditions, no matter how small.
Go on with your life, don’t worry about falls
I miss you all dearly, so keep up your chin.
Until the day comes we’re together again.

7. Heaven

       by Anonymous

The pain doesn’t seem to go away
My tears are still flowing
I think about you all the time
You are so sadly missed
But I know you are in a better place
Dancing with God’s angels
You are in a safe space, in Heaven
Although I can no longer hold you
I hold onto memories of you
And cherish them with love
God took you from this world
So, you could be with Him in Heaven
I lost you too soon
But I will never forget you.

8. Loved Ones

       by Anonymous

Our loved ones who have gone to rest
Don’t just disappear
As they walk beside us
And still remain near
They may not be seen or heard
But they are listening to our every word

You are dearly missed
And deeply loved
But you are in a better place
With the Lord above.

Poems about Memories With Friends

In this section, you will find a few short poems about friends and memories. These poems are perfect for sending to a friend to let them know you are thinking about them.

1. My Friend

       by Heidi Davin

Whenever I think of the times, we’ve shared together,
I’m reminded of the pains and heartaches we’ve had to weather.
It seems no matter what’s going on,
To find comfort we don’t have to wait too long.
What then do we do when times get harder as we continue to grow older?
Let me just say this to you,
Our friendship is very dear and special, too.
So please, no matter what happens between us,
Don’t let our friendship turn to dust.
Or I will, without a doubt, fall apart,
With the pieces of my broken heart.

2. True Friendship

       by Alora M. Knight

It isn’t the years,
It isn’t the tears
That makes life worthwhile.
It’s the memories that grew
And the people you knew
That will bring back a smile.

Mistakes that were made,
Plans often mislaid
Are a part of the past.
What you’ve kept in your mind
Is where you will find
What you wished to hold fast.

Some things in life
May be had without strife.
It can happen that way.
Still, a friendship is earned,
And where love is concerned,
I’m willed to say.

When life draws to a close,
Let me be one of those
To cry, “Life has been great!”
It’s the friends that were made,
Those who lived unafraid.
That is proof of the world we create.

3. Memories of Friends

       by Lynne Howard

Thinking of friends long ago
Who have touched our hearts
Triggered by a photograph or a song
Selective memory plays a part
Some remain ever present
In our daily lives
Others have moved to pastures new
In order to survive
A few they have departed
From this earthly plane
Sadly gone but never forgotten
Fond memories to this day remain

4. Life-Long Pals

       by Sierra

We are always by each other, never leaving.
We are best friends, never deceiving.

Sometimes we fight. Sometimes we cry.
We’re best friends; we never lie.

Life- long pals mean best pals forever and ever.
We’ll never be apart, never.

But some things change. You moved away.
I thought you were here to always stay.

But we made a promise to be lifelong pals.
We turned out to be the best gals.

If something ever happened to you, I’d remember we made a friendship pact.
Everybody knows we’re friends, yep, that’s a true fact.

I will always love you no matter where you may be.
Just remember to always remember me!

5. Walk Away

       by Mili Jain

I watch you walk away from me,
And the tears start to fall.
I ask myself a million times,
How did we lose it all?
For the first time, I had no words
That to you, I could say.
I cling to old memories.
And I watch you walk away.
I just don’t want to let you go,
But inside, I know I must.
My heart’s whimpering with pain,
But it’s my mind, I trust.
There’s confusion around me,
There’s numbness in my heart,
But looking at you walk away
My world just fell apart.
If only I could handle it
And bear to just say,
I’d use my breath and say the words:
Don’t Walk Away!

6. Bonds of Friendship

       by Craig Burkholder

From the day that I first knew you,
Your heart was pure and kind;
Your smile was sweet and innocent,
Your wit was well refined.

The sparkle in your eyes was keen,
Your friendship fast and real;
Soft words were your virtue,
And humor your appeal.

We grew as friends together,
We laughed and shared our dreams;
Along the way, crush or two,
Went unrevealed, it seems.

As years rolled on, our paths were split,
Our roads went separate ways;
We each pursued our interests,
That occupied our days.

We soon forgot our youthful bliss,
Of tender carefree years;
We didn’t talk or keep in touch,
Throughout life’s pain and tears.

Then my darkest hour came,
And tried me to my core;
To save my heart from ruin,
I closed and locked the door.

Then out of every nowhere,
With precise, directed cue;
An old familiar smile,
Came slowly into view.

Although much time was gone,
And the die of fate long cast;
It was as if we hadn’t missed,
A second of the past.

You listened with attentive care,
And reassured my mind;
That loving hearts are still alive,
With purpose and design.

Deep inside, I’ve locked way,
Emotions yet untold;
As time goes on and bonds grow strong,
They will all unfold.

So thank you, friend, for taking time,
To demonstrate your love;
It’s yet another blessing that,
I’m undeserving of.

7. Old Friends

       by Freya Manfred

Old friend, I knew you before we met.
I saw you at the window of my soul—
I heard you in the steady millstone of my heart
grinding grain for our daily bread.
You are sedimentary, rock-solid cousin earth,
where I stand firmly, astonished by your grace and truth.
And gratitude comes to me and says:
Tell me anything and I will listen.

8. My Friend

       by Carol A. Smith

As the years pass us by as we grow old and apart
I want you to know that you’re always in my heart
You helped me with problems through good times and bad times
You helped me keep smiling when I felt sad
You helped me stay strong as we listened and sent each other country songs
I’ll never find another friend as you
Even though we didn’t know each other that long.
Wherever the years take us, no place is too far; you’ve been a wonderful friend with a good heart to lend, and I want you to know I’m glad we met your someone special I’ll never forget.

Poems about Memories with Family

Poems about memories with family can be some of the most cherished and beautiful pieces of writing. These poems can be a great way to connect with loved ones.

1. At the Fireside

       by John Davis Long

At nightfall by the firelight’s cheer
My little Margaret sits me near,
And begs me tell of things that were
When I was little, just like her.
Ah, little lips, you touch the spring
Of sweetest sad remembering;
And hearth and heart flash all aglow
With ruddy tints of long ago!
I at my father’s fireside sit,
Youngest of all who circle it,
And beg him tell me what did he
When he was little, just like me.

2. I Remember, I Remember

       by Thomas Hood

I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,—
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heav’n
Than when I was a boy.

3. My Father

       by Airen From Dallas

His hands smelled like Cheerios
When he would tuck me in at night
I later discovered that smell to be
Not my favorite cereal
But his brand of cigarette

He would stand over me singing
Songs I was sure he had made up
I later discovered the songs to be
Not from my father’s heart
But the records that he played

He told me stories of adventure
He and I were the stars of his tales
I later discovered the stories to be
Not from my father’s mind
But the books that he read

He told me I was his life, his love
Words I doubted in troubled times
I later discovered these words to be
Not from mine or my father’s imagination
But the truest thing I’ve ever known

4. Pictures of Memory

       by Alice Cary

Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory’s wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden,
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies,
That lean from the fragrant hedge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.
I once had a little brother,
With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that dim old forest,
He lieth in peace asleep:
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother,
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree tops bright,
He fell, in his saintlike beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory’s wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

5. The Playthings

       by Hannah Flagg Gould

“Oh! mother, here’s the very top,
That brother used to spin;
The vase with seeds I’ve seen him drop
To call our robin in;
The line that held his pretty kite,
His bow, his cup and ball,
The slate on which he learned to write,
His feather, cap and all!”
“My dear, I’d put the things away
Just where they were before:
Go, Anna, take him out to play,
And shut the closet door.
Sweet innocent! he little thinks
The slightest thought expressed,
Of him that’s lost, too deeply sinks
Within a mother’s breast!”

6. Our Homestead

       by Phoebe Cary

Our old brown homestead reared its walls,
From the wayside dust aloof,
Where the apple-boughs could almost cast
Their fruitage on its roof:
And the cherry-tree so near it grew,
That when awake I’ve lain,
In the lonesome nights, I’ve heard the limbs,
As they creaked against the pane:
And those orchard trees, O those orchard trees!
I’ve seen my little brothers rocked
In their tops by the summer breeze.
The sweet-brier under the window-sill,
Which the early birds made glad,
And the damask rose by the garden fence
Were all the flowers we had.
I’ve looked at many a flower since then,
Exotics rich and rare,
That to other eyes were lovelier,
But not to me so fair;
O those roses bright, O those roses bright!
I have twined them with my sister’s locks,
That are hid in the dust from sight!
We had a well, a deep old well,
Where the spring was never dry,
And the cool drops down from the mossy stones
Were falling constantly:
And there never was water half so sweet
As that in my little cup,
Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep,
Which my father’s hand set up;
And that deep old well, O that deep old well!
I remember yet the splashing sound
Of the bucket as it fell.
Our homestead had an ample hearth,
Where at night we loved to meet;
There my mother’s voice was always kind,
And her smile was always sweet;
And there I’ve sat on my father’s knee,
And watched his thoughtful brow,
With my childish hand in his raven hair,—
That hair is silver now!
But that broad hearth’s light, O that broad hearth’s light!
And my father’s look, and my mother’s smile,—
They are in my heart to-night.

7. Excerpt From “The Young Artist”

       by Hannah Flagg Gould

Sister, gather the buds of Spring,
All dewy and bright, as they’re opening!
Treasure them up from the frost and blight,
For a lowering day and a starless night;
And they will be fresh in thy bosom still,
When all without may be dark and chill.
Another will seek to be crowned by thee
Lord of thy heart and thy destiny!
Thou may’st bestow, in thy riper years,
Laurels to water with daily tears.
Then will memory love to come
Through mist and shade, to thine early home,
Within the halo that brightly beams
Around the scene of thine infant dreams.
Again thou wilt playfully sit, and look
On the artless sketch of thy brother’s book,
And own no moment of earthly bliss
So pure, so holy, and sweet as this!

8. The Grandfather

       by Charles G. Eastman

The farmer sat in his easy-chair
Smoking his pipe of clay,
While his hale old wife with busy care,
Was clearing the dinner away;
A sweet little girl with fine blue eyes,
On her grandfather’s knee, was catching flies.
The old man laid his hand on her head,
With a tear on his wrinkled face,
He thought how often her mother, dead,
Had sat in the selfsame place;
As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye,
“Don’t smoke!” said the child, “how it makes you cry!”
The house dog lay stretched out on the floor,
Where the shade, afternoons, used to steal;
The busy old wife by the open door
Was turning the spinning wheel,
And the old brass clock on the manteltree
Had plodded along to almost three.
Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair,
While close to his heaving breast
The moistened brow and the cheek so fair
Of his sweet grandchild were pressed;
His head bent down, all her soft hair lay;
Fast asleep were they both on that summer day.

9. Home, Sweet Home

       by John Howard Payne

Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam.
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, sought through the world, is ne’er met elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There’s no place like home.

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds, singing gayly, that came at my call —
Give me them — and the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There’s no place like home.

Poems about Memories of Love

As time goes on, those early memories of love become even more special. Here are some poems about in loving memory that will make you smile, laugh, and maybe even shed a tear.

1. A Purple Ribbon

       by Daniel Turner

Mementos in a box, from years gone by
Thought to have been disposed of long ago
A glance, when something purple caught my eye
A ribbon from someone I used to know

I gently gave a tug like way back when
It slipped from its confines just like before
Then instantly relived it all again
And just like her, it leaves me wanting more

But even though it was so delicate
This ribbon in its femininity
Tied in her hair it looked so elegant
Yet strong enough to bind her memory

This ribbon with its strength beyond compare
Ties fifty years to my first love affair

2. Kiss the Rain

       by Andrea Dietrich

I stand here by the lakeshore, and I smell
fresh honeysuckle as I kiss the rain.
A memory that I cannot curtail
wafts bitter sweetly to me, and again
it’s May. . . the night you came by the moon’s light.
The air was permeated by perfume
from blossoms colored innocently white.
But now it’s summer; yellow is each bloom.
When plump upon the vines, sweet berries, red,
will be swooped up by birds – carried away.
I stoop to touch a stem.  How soon has fled
my flowered youth, and now this day chilled grey.
I bow in downpour like the vines bent low
while raindrops – glistening with my own tears – flow.

3. Laminated Love

       by Poet Destroyer

Frozen flames pressed
between each page;
suddenly, I felt each passing note.
The painting on the wall began to breathe
gently the same colors repeated life.
I was so close; I felt every vibration
and there underneath the gloom,
the roof let in the luminance of the moon.
A memory unfolded while I held your hand,
repainting our years, a devoted love
at the heart of everything. Steam is drawn from our hands.
 The canvas,
the beautiful canvas, tied by solid green-gold.
Flames-brushed each wall as aging you and me.
In perfect harmony. Together

4. Soft is the Sea

       by Frederic Parker

Along the feathered edge, a red sun-sets
To bind the evening in dreams eyes explore
Two hearts will greet, till’ paradise begets
Love leaves impressions as waves swirl to shore
These caps of white will churn warmly the sand
The world will pass, the change of light is missed
Lonely eyes search for their yearning dreamland
When lips taste fire in a hungry kiss
As night arrives to shelter silhouettes
Soft is the sea to these two souls afar
In a twilight’s pulse when the tide resets
And hands hold tight to await the Daystar
The fate of these lovers sealed in evermore
Tomorrow’s memory from the seashore

5. One Special Yew

       by Connie Marcum Wong

I want to merge with this old Yew,
To travel through its rings of time.
Back when it’s sprout had just begun
Near Blarney’s river so sublime.

Where ivy climbs the castle walls,
A quaint sized foot bridge leads to where,
The old strong Yew still charms today
As autumn chills with crisp clean air.

I felt compelled to climb it’s limbs
To sit embraced by its sweet love.
To its spirit, in whispered voice,
I then professed the same thereof.

How strong that memory still keeps
As other trees I’ve come to know
Bless me with their cool umbrella,
I see that Yew in vigil glow!

6. A Kiss Remembered

       by Frederic Parker

Beyond fair reason, I shall think of you.
In fallen grass or gently flowered field.
To see each fleeting moment fade to blue,
With my distant thoughts, I silently yield.
This memory to tremble ever soft,
A misty vision of a face once kissed.
I’m whisked to midnight skies and stars aloft,
A sheltered afterglow now reminisced.
The shadowed door with candlelight so still,
An empty chair with a fading silhouette.
Forgotten times in love’s unyielding will,
As flames to ash can trace the two who met.
A hand that brushed a cheek to often soothe,
A kiss remembered, many years removed.

7. In Loving Memory of You

       by Eve Roper

In memory of you and all the beauty I behold.
I will listen to the laughter’s and discern which one was yours
I would play the music that I know you would wish to hear
And dance on the same footsteps wearing your shoes
As I float dancing with you just one more time
And when we are done, I will hold your hand
Pull you towards me one more time
And see forever in your eyes

And when tomorrow comes
And it’s my turn to dance again with you,
I will flow you to the Milky Way
Where all the stars will look upon us
With coruscation envy

Poems about Memories of Childhood

Here you will find poems about memories of childhood. These poems explore the different emotions that come with remembering the past.

1. Young Soldiers

       by Anonymous

Oh, were you ne’er a schoolboy,
And did you never train,
And feel that swelling of the heart
You ne’er can feel again?
Did you never meet, far down the street,
With plumes and banners gay,
While the kettle, for the kettledrum,
Played your march, march away?
It seems to me but yesterday,
Nor scarce so long ago,
Since all our school their muskets took,
To charge the fearful foe.
Our muskets were of cedar wood,
With ramrods bright and new;
With bayonets forever set,
And painted barrels, too.
We charged upon a flock of geese,
And put them all to flight—
Except one sturdy gander
That thought to show us fight.
But, ah! we knew a thing or two;
Our captain wheeled the van;
We routed him, we scouted him,
Nor lost a single man!
Our captain was as brave a lad
As e’er commission bore;
And brightly shone his new tin sword;
A paper cap he wore.
He led us up the steep hillside,
Against the western wind,
While the cockerel plume that decked his head
Streamed bravely out behind.
We shouldered arms, we carried arms,
We charged the bayonet;
And woe unto the mullein stalk
That in our course we met!
At two o’clock the roll we called,
And till the close of day,
With fearless hearts, though tired limbs,
We fought the mimic fray,—
Till the supper bell, from out the dell,
Bade us march, march away.

2. The Return

       by John Burroughs

He sought the old scenes with eager feet —
The scenes he had known as a boy;
“Oh, for a draught of those fountains sweet,
And a taste of that vanished joy!”
He roamed the fields, he wooed the streams,
His schoolboy paths essayed to trace;
The orchard ways recalled his dreams,
The hills were like his mother’s face.
O sad, sad hills! O cold, cold hearth!
In sorrow he learned this truth —
One may return to the place of his birth,
He cannot go back to his youth.

3. The Attic of My Childhood

       by Helen Emma Maring

Oh, the wonders of that attic,
How I loved to climb its stair
Made of steps just like a ladder
And a trap door waiting there!
Through fan-shapen windows, streaming,
Came the golden shafts of sun,
Through the fairy curtains gleaming,
That the tireless spiders spun.
There, a distaff, wheel and treadle,

Lay beneath the sloping roof,
None there were who knew its uses—
Gone, the maker of the woof.
There, too, hung a war-time weapon—
Grandpa’s bayonet, so grim.
He had whipped the Rebel army—
General Grant a-helping him.
Oh, the treasures of that attic
Hanging from its rafters bare—
Coats of velvet, silken dresses,
Beaded bags, and wreaths of hair.
Hats and bonnets, shoes and slippers,
Used for masquerades a lot,
Plant jars and unhandled dippers
Underneath each leaky spot.
Shawls and scarfs and knitted mittens,
Colors of the Orient;
Dolls and doylies, sawdust kittens,
Oh, the money that was spent!
Strings of buttons, by the thousands,
Still no making of a pair;
Margaret sought them from the neighbors
When she wore beribboned hair.
Dainty bits of china, broken,
And a precious statue cracked,
All within their tissue wrappings,
Tied by loving hands—intact.
Winter apples, there for keeping,
Spread about upon the floor,
Big pound-sweets and golden russets,
But I never left a core.
Piles of butternuts there drying
Till their satin coats of green
Turned a sombre brown, all shrunken,
And the jagged shells were seen.
Whalebone ribs from old umbrellas,
And I smoked that acrid stuff,
Till my stomach in rebellion
Warned me—not another puff.
Hoopskirts, with and without bustles,
Linen dusters, carpet rags,
Quilting frames and curtain stretchers,
Magazines and traveling bags.
Paper sacks of downy feathers
Waiting there to fill a tick,
Foot-stools and some other comforts
Only used when folks were sick.
And within a trunk so aged
That its sides had turned to gray,
Were the tear-stained precious treasures
Of the ones who’d passed away—
Stockings made for brother Tommy,
Dresses that dear Nannie wore,
Dainty bits of broidered muslin—
Grandma’s needle-work of yore.
Ah! Each mortal has an attic
Where he stores the broken past—
Shattered hopes, and hours of gladness,
Loves that cling until the last.
Childhood plays within its shadow,
Manhood lingers in its gloom,
But Old Age lives midst the splendors,
There, in Memory’s Attic Room.

4. The Things Divine

       by Jean Brooks Burt

These are the things I hold divine:
A trusting child’s hand laid in mine,
Rich brown earth and wind-tossed trees,
The taste of grapes and the drone of bees,
A rhythmic gallop, long June days,
A rose-hedged lane and lovers’ lays,
The welcome smile on neighbors’ faces,
Cool, wide hills and open places,
Breeze-blown fields of silver rye,
The wild, sweet note of the plover’s cry,
Fresh spring showers and scent of box,
The soft, pale tint of the garden phlox,
Lilacs blooming, a drowsy noon,
A flight of geese and an autumn moon,
Rolling meadows and storm-washed heights,
A fountain murmur on summer nights,
A dappled fawn in the forest hush,
Simple words and the song of a thrush,
Rose-red dawns and a mate to share
With comrade soul my gypsy fare,
A waiting fire when the twilight ends,
A gallant heart and the voice of friends.

5. Rock Me to Sleep

       by Elizabeth Akers Allen

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again, just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears;
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain;
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Over my heart in the days that are flown,
No love like mother love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul, and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again, as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more,
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song;
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood’s years have been only a dream!
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep:—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!

6. Only in Sleep

       by Sara Teasdale

Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
Annie with ringlets warm and wild.
Only in sleep Time is forgotten—
What may have come to them, who can know?
Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.
The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
I met their eyes and found them mild—
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
And for them am I too a child?

7. The Light of Other Days

       by Thomas Moore

Oft in the stilly night
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the 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.

8. Forty Years Ago

       by Anonymous

I’ve wandered to the village, Tom,
I’ve sat beneath the tree,
Upon the schoolhouse playground,
That sheltered you and me;
But none were left to greet me, Tom,
And few were left to know,
Who played with me upon the green,
Just forty years ago.
The grass was just as green, Tom,
Barefooted boys at play
Were sporting, just as we did then,
With spirits just as gay.
But the master sleeps upon the hill,
Which, coated o’er with snow,
Afforded us a sliding place,
Some forty years ago.
The old schoolhouse is altered some;
The benches are replaced
By new ones very like the same
Our jackknives had defaced.
But the same old bricks are in the wall,
The bell swings to and fro;
Its music’s just the same, dear Tom,
‘T was forty years ago.
The spring that bubbled ‘neath the hill,
Close by the spreading beech,
Is very low; ‘t was once so high
That we could almost reach;
And kneeling down to take a drink,
Dear Tom, I started so,
To think how very much I’ve changed
Since forty years ago.
Near by that spring, upon an elm,
You know, I cut your name,
Your sweetheart’s just beneath it, Tom;
And you did mine the same.
Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark;
‘T was dying sure, but slow,
Just as that one whose name you cut
Died forty years ago.
My lids have long been dry, Tom,
But tears came in my eyes:
I thought of her I loved so well,
Those early broken ties.
I visited the old churchyard,
And took some flowers to strew
Upon the graves of those we loved
Just forty years ago.
Some are in the churchyard laid,
Some sleep beneath the sea;
And none are left of our old class
Excepting you and me.
And when our time shall come, Tom,
And we are called to go,
I hope we’ll meet with those we loved
Some forty years ago.

9. The Stack Behind the Barn

       by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

September is here, with the ripened seeds,
And the homely smell of the autumn weeds,
My heart goes back to a vanished day,
And I am again a boy at play
In the stack behind the barn.
Dear memory of the old home-farm,—
The hedge-rows fencing the crops from harm,
The cows, too heavy with milk for haste,
The barn-yard, yellow with harvest waste,
And the stack behind the barn.
Dear, dear, dear the old garden-smell,
Sweet William and phlox that I loved so well,
And the seeding mint, and the sage turned grey,
But dearer the smell of the tumbled hay
In the stack behind the barn.
In the side of the stack we made our nest,
And there was the play-house we loved the best.
A thicket of goldenrod, bending and bright,
Filled us with glory and hid us from sight
In the stack behind the barn.
Then, when the stack, with the year, ran low,
And our frosty, morning cheeks were aglow,
When time had forgotten the dropping leaves,
What joy to drop from the barn’s wide eaves
To the stack behind the barn!
O childhood years! Your heedless feet
Have slipped away with how much that’s sweet!
But dreams and memory master you,
Till the make-believe of Life is through
I still may play as the children do
In the stack behind the barn.

Final Thoughts

Memories are a precious part of our lives, and poetry about memories can be a great way to both reflect on the past and celebrate its joys.

At its best, poetry can capture the essence of life and help us make sense of our complex feelings.

From classic literature to modern day spoken word, remembering special moments with poems will bring them back to life in vivid detail.

We hope this article has provided some ideas of poems for memories that you can use to capture your own special moments in life.

If you have any other special memory poems or stories, we invite you to share them with us in the comments below!