Motherless Baby And Babyless Mother

Motherless baby and babyless mother,
Bring them together to love one another.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

If Nature Smiles - The Mother Must

If Nature smiles - the Mother must
I'm sure, at many a whim
Of Her eccentric Family -
Is She so much to blame?

by Emily Dickinson.

Mother And Babe

I SEE the sleeping babe, nestling the breast of its mother;
The sleeping mother and babe- hush'd, I study them long and long.

by Walt Whitman.

Motto [ma Pur Si Aspre Vie, Ne Si Selvaggie]

„Ma pur si aspre vie, ne si selvaggie
Cercar non so, ch'amor non venga sempre
Ragionando con meco, ed io con lui."

by Christian Winther.

Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry;
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I!

by Sappho.

Ma Ben Veggi'Or Si Come Al Popol Tutto

Ma ben veggi'or si come al popol tutto
Favola fui gran tempo: onde sovente
Di me medesmo meco mi vergogno...



by Sophus Niels Christen Claussen.

My Baby Has A Father And A Mother

My baby has a father and a mother,
Rich little baby!
Fatherless, motherless, I know another
Forlorn as may be:
Poor little baby!

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

You too, my mother, read my rhymes
For love of unforgotten times,
And you may chance to hear once more
The little feet along the floor.

by Robert Louis Stevenson.

To-day's your natal day,
Sweet flowers I bring;
Mother, accept, I pray,
My offering.

And may you happy live,
And long us bless;
Receiving as you give
Great happiness.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

A Ma Soeur Cécile

Cache-les dans ton coeur, toi dont le coeur pardonne,
Ces bouquets imprudents qui fleurissaient en moi ;
C'est toute une âme en fleur qui s'exhale vers toi ;
Aux autres, je l'entr'ouvre : à toi, je te la donne.

by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore.

Mother, to whose valiant will
Battling long ago,
What the heaping years fulfil,
Light and song, I owe;
Send my little book afield,
Fronting praise or blame
With the shining flag and shield
Of your name.

by Archibald Lampman.

Mother Shake The Cherry-Tree

Mother shake the cherry-tree,
Susan catch a cherry;
Oh how funny that will be,
Let's be merry!
One for brother, one for sister,
Two for mother more,
Six for father, hot and tired,
Knocking at the door.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

Adieu Madam Et Ma Mastres

Adieu madam et ma mastres.
Adieu mon solas et mon Joy.
Adieu iusque vous reuoye,
Adieu vous diz per graunt tristesse.

Adew, madam, and my mystresse,
Adew, my sollace and my ioye!
Adew untyll agayne I see yow,
Adew I saye ouercom by sadnesse.

by Henry VIII, King of England.

A Father To A Mother

When God's own child came down to earth,
High heaven was very glad;
The angels sang for holy mirth;
Not God himself was sad!

Shall we, when ours goes homeward, fret?
Come, Hope, and wait on Sorrow!
The little one will not forget;
It's only till to-morrow!

by George MacDonald.

Farewell, dear Heart! Since needs it must I go,
Dear Heart, farewell!
Fain would I stay, but that I love thee so.
One kiss, ma Belle!
What hope lies in the Land we do not know,
Who, Dear, can tell?
But thee I love, and let thy 'plaint be, ‘Lo,
He loved me well!’

by Coventry Patmore.

Mama Never Forgets Her Birds

164

Mama never forgets her birds,
Though in another tree—
She looks down just as often
And just as tenderly
As when her little mortal nest
With cunning care she wove—
If either of her "sparrows fall,"
She "notices," above.

by Emily Dickinson.

One wept whose only child was dead,
New-born, ten years ago.
"Weep not; he is in bliss," they said.
She answered, "Even so,

"Ten years ago was born in pain
A child, not now forlorn.
But oh, ten years ago, in vain,
A mother, a mother was born."

by Alice Meynell.

Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel

MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel;
   My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
O, if you felt the pain I feel!
   But O, who ever felt as I?

No longer could I doubt him true-
   All other men may use deceit;
He always said my eyes were blue,
   And often swore my lips were sweet.

by Walter Savage Landor.

The Mother to her brooding breast
Her shrouded baby closely holds,
A stationary shadow, drest
In shadow, falling folds on folds.

With gesture motionless as Night
She stands; through wavering glare and sound
Deep pierces like a sombre light
The full gloom of her gaze profound.

by Robert Laurence Binyon.

Ma Muse Fuit Les Champs

Ma Muse fuit les champs abreuvés de carnage,
Et ses pieds innocents ne se poseront pas
Où la cendre des morts gémirait sous ses pas.
Elle pâlit d'entendre et le cri des batailles,
Et les assauts tonnants qui frappent les murailles,
Et le sang qui jaillit sous les pointes d'airain
Souillerait la blancheur de sa robe de lin.

by Andre Marie de Chenier.

'MOTHER! Mother!' he called as he fell
In the horror there
Of a bursting shell
That strewed red flesh on the air.
Far away over sea and land:
The knitting dropt
From an old white hand,
And a heart for an instant stopt.
But it was Death, dark mother and wise,
All-tenderest,
Who kissed his eyes
And gathered him to her breast.

by Katharine Lee Bates.

The Mother Who Died Too

She was so little—little in her grave,
The wide earth all around so hard and cold—
She was so little! therefore did I crave
My arms might still her tender form enfold.
She was so little, and her cry so weak
When she among the heavenly children came—
She was so little—I alone might speak
For her who knew no word nor her own name.

by Edith Matilda Thomas.

Quelquefois sur ma tête elle met ses mains pures,
Blanches, ainsi que des frissons blancs de guipures.

Elle me baise au front, me parle tendrement,
D'une voix au son d'or mélancoliquement.

Elle a les yeux couleur de ma vague chimère,
Ô toute poésie, ô toute extase, ô Mère !

À l'autel de ses pieds je l'honore en pleurant,
Je suis toujours petit pour elle, quoique grand.

by Émile Nelligan.

Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear

Ah, woe is me, my mother dear!
A man of strife ye've born me:
For sair contention I maun bear;
They hate, revile, and scorn me.

I ne'er could lend on bill or band,
That five per cent. might blest me;
And borrowing, on the tither hand,
The deil a ane wad trust me.

Yet I, a coin-denied wight,
By Fortune quite discarded;
Ye see how I am, day and night,
By lad and lass blackguarded!

by Robert Burns.

The Song Of The Old Mother

I RISE in the dawn, and I kneel and blow
Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow;
And then I must scrub and bake and sweep
Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;
And the young lie long and dream in their bed
Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head,
And their ~y goes over in idleness,
And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress:
While I must work because I am old,
And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.

by William Butler Yeats.

If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

by Rudyard Kipling.

Rondel À Ma Pipe

Les pieds sur les chenets de fer
Devant un bock, ma bonne pipe,
Selon notre amical principe
Rêvons à deux, ce soir d'hiver.


Puisque le ciel me prend en grippe
(N'ai-je pourtant assez souffert ?)
les pieds sur les chenets, ma pipe.


Preste, la mort que j'anticipe
Va me tirer de cet enfer
Pour celui du vieux Lucifer;
Soit ! nous fumerons chez ce type,


Les pieds sur des chenets de fer.

by Émile Nelligan.

Mother-God,
Set me within the safe defences of Thy pity:

In ignorance and folly I have wasted all my days,
My soul is base:

Thy gift of life is squandered,
My latest days go fleeting by,
And fear grips hard upon me:

Far have I travelled,
Yet little fruit have I of all my wandering:

I have forgotten Thee,
Forgive me, save me
Show me Thy love,
And set me close by Thee, sure fenced from fear and doubt.

by Sant Tukaram.

Mother And Child

One night a tiny dewdrop fell
Into the bosom of a rose,--
"Dear little one, I love thee well,
Be ever here thy sweet repose!"

Seeing the rose with love bedight,
The envious sky frowned dark, and then
Sent forth a messenger of light
And caught the dewdrop up again.

"Oh, give me back my heavenly child,--
My love!" the rose in anguish cried;
Alas! the sky triumphant smiled,
And so the flower, heart-broken, died.

by Eugene Field.

O Mother, Who Really

O Mother, who really
Knows Your magic?

You're a crazy girl
Driving us all crazy with these tricks.

No one knows anyone else
In a world of Your illusions.

Kali's tricks are so deft,
We act on what we see.

And what suffering --
All because of a crazy girl!

Who knows
What She truly is?

Ramprasad says: If She decides
To be kind, this misery will pass.

[ Translated by Leonard Nathan and Clinton Seely]

by Ramprasad Sen.

The Tune Mother Played

He was only a tramp ! The organ grinder,
Fast in the thronging way,
Rolled the notes of the dear old tune

That his mother used to play.

He looked at his rags his worthless hands-
He touched his tresses grey,

And heard the notes of the lilting tune
His mother used to play.

' Move on !' He drifted adown the street

The kissless and weary way ;
But his feet kept time to the dear old tune
That his mother used to play.

by Robert Kirkland Kernighan.

True heart and wise, that with Love's key
Didst open all life's mystery
And buy life's treasure at the price
Of Love's perpetual sacrifice!

The peace that Love finds hid in care;
The strength that love-borne burdens bear;
The hope that stands with love and faith
Serenely facing life and death;

The blessing that in blessing lies-
These didst thou know, true heart and wise!
Now God hath added, last and best,
The sudden, glad surprise of rest!

by Rossiter Worthington Raymond.

Sonnet (J'Ai Bâti Dans Ma Fantaisie)

J’ai bâti dans ma fantaisie
Un théâtre aux décors divers:
- Magiques palais, grands bois verts
Pour y jouer ma poésie.

Un peu trop au hasard choisie,
La jeune première à l’envers
Récite quelquefois mes vers.
Faute de mieux je m’extasie.

Et je déclame avec tant d’art
Qu’on me croirait pris à son fard,
Au fard que je lui mets moi-même.

Non. Sous le faux air virginal
Je vois l’être inepte et vénal,
Mais c’est le rôle seul que j’aime.

by Charles Cros.

Mother And Child

I saw a mother holding
Her play-worn baby son,
Her pliant arms enfolding
The drooping little one.
Her lips were made of sweetness,
And sweet the eyes above;
With infantile completeness
He yielded to her love.
And I who saw the heaving
Of breast to dimpling cheek,
Have felt, within, the weaving
Of thoughts I cannot speak;
Have felt myself the nestling,
All strengthless, love-ensiled;
Have felt myself the mother
Abrood above her child.

by Ethelwyn Wetherald.

Thou Art More Kind Than Mother Dear

Thou art more kind than mother dear,
More soothing than the rays of moon
Thy love an ever flowing tide,
Sinks deeper than a common stream
I know of none that equals Thee -
Thou best of all immortal Gods
I wave my name above Thy head,
And part it at thy holy feet.
Ah! Sweeter than sweetest things,
And mightier than all the elements,
Thou rulest O'er the Universe,
And seest that it goes all right,
In silence do I lay my head
upon thy feet , and pray 'Forgive'

by Sant Tukaram.

Your love was like moonlight
turning harsh things to beauty,
so that little wry souls
reflecting each other obliquely
as in cracked mirrors . . .
beheld in your luminous spirit
their own reflection,
transfigured as in a shining stream,
and loved you for what they are not.

You are less an image in my mind
than a luster
I see you in gleams
pale as star-light on a gray wall . . .
evanescent as the reflection of a white swan
shimmering in broken water.

by Lola Ridge.

Beautiful mother is busy all day,
So busy she neither can sing nor say;
But lovely thoughts, in a ceaseless flow,
Through her eyes, and her ears, and her bosom go-
Motion, sight, and sound, and scent,
Weaving a royal, rich content.

When night is come, and her children sleep,
Beautiful mother her watch doth keep;
With glowing stars in her dusky hair
Down she sits to her music rare;
And her instrument that never fails,
Is the hearts and the throats of her nightingales.

by George MacDonald.

The Mother’s Visit

LONG years ago she visited my chamber,
Steps soft and slow, a taper in her hand;
Her fond kiss she laid upon my eyelids,
Fair as an angel from the unknown land:
Mother, mother, is it thou I see?
Mother, mother, watching over me.

And yesternight I saw her cross my chamber,
Soundless as light, a palm-branch in her hand;
Her mild eyes she bent upon my anguish,
Calm as an angel from the blessed land;
Mother, mother, is it thou I see?
Mother, mother, art thou come for me?

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

Sil.

O Cupid ! Monarch ouer Kings,
Wherefore hast thou feete and wings?
It is to shew how swift thou art,
When thou wound'st a tender heart:
Thy wings being clip'd, and feete held still,
Thy Bow so many could not kill.

Acc.

It is all one in Venus wanton schoole,
Who highest sits, the wise man or the foole:
Fooles in loues colledge
Haue farre more knowledge,
To reade a woman ouer,
Than a neate prating louer.
Nay, tis confest,
That fooles please women best.

by John Lyly.

I

Fleck of sky you are,
Dropped through branches dark,
O my little one, mine!
Promise of the star,
Outpour of the lark;
Beam and song divine.

II

See this precious gift,
Steeping in new birth
All my being, for sign
Earth to heaven can lift,
Heaven descend on earth,
Both in one be mine!

III

Life in light you glass
When you peep and coo,
You, my little one, mine!
Brooklet chirps to grass,
Daisy looks in dew
Up to dear sunshine.

by George Meredith.