Poems about memories by famous poets
Robert Frost Quotes (Author of The Poetry of Robert Frost)
Forgetfulness - Poem by Billy Collins
Since the beginning of time, humans have lived their sometimes grand and sometimes ordinary lives, and have thereafter been laid to rest in countless graves and tombs. Death is something that, in a peculiar way, unites people everywhere, regardless of their social status, race, religious beliefs, or country of residence. This curious aspect of human nature inspired countless famous poets to contemplate, and write about, man's mortality. Famous poets like Emily Dickinson , Ella Wheeler Wilcox , and Mary Elizabeth Frye all had their own unique ways of viewing death and its effect on the living, views that still impact readers today. Death is nothing at all. It does not count.
Memory, as a wise writer once put it, is the thing we forget with. But poetry, of course, is bound up with the idea of remembering, recollecting, reflecting, memorialising … so here are ten of the very best poems about remembering, memories, remembrance, nostalgia, and related themes. William Shakespeare, Sonnet In this sonnet, written when Christina Rossetti was still a teenager, she requests that the addressee of the poem remember her after she has died. What gives the poem a twist is the concluding thought that it would be better for her loved one to forget her and be happy than to remember her if it makes her lover sad.
Poems In Memory of Loved Ones
The name of the author is the first to go followed obediently by the title, the plot, the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of, as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, to a little fishing village where there are no phones. Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag, and even now as you memorize the order of the planets, something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. Whatever it is you are struggling to remember, it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. It has floated away down a dark mythological river whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall, well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. No wonder you rise in the middle of the night to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted out of a love poem that you used to know by heart. To know that one is forgetful fosters hope.