Mom Poems

Poems About Mothers

To Mother by Thomas W. Fessenden
To My Mother by Lucretia Maria Davidson
My Mother by Ann Taylor
To My Mother by Edgar Allan Poe
"To My First Love, My Mother" by Christina Rossetti
To the Best of Women, My Mother by Arthur H. Adams
To My Mother by Robert Louis Stevenson
Written By The Sick Bed Of My Honored Mother by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

Poems About Motherhood

The Hand That Rocks the Cradle by William Ross Wallace
The Bravest Battle Ever Fought by Joaquin Miller
Motherhood by C. S. Calverley
Motherhood by Edgar A. Guest
Motherhood by Mathilde Blind
Masterpieces by Ethel Hueston
The Mother by Georgia Douglas Johnson
My Goal by Ruth Markley Buchannan

Mother's Prayer

A Mother's Prayer by Anonymous
A Mother's Prayer by Anonymous
A Mother's Prayer by Anonymous
My Mother's Bible by George Pope Morris

Mother's Love

Mothers—And Others by Anonymous
To Annie by Mary E. Tucker
A Mother's Jewels by Arthur Weir
A Mother's Grief and Joy by Hannah Flagg Gould
Excerpt from "The Affectionate Father" by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott
Mother and the Baby by Edgar A. Guest
August Afternoon by Hilda Conkling
Cornelia's Jewels by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
The Patch by Joseph Warren Gardiner
Mother o' Mine by Rudyard Kipling

Love For Mom

Love Your Mother, Little One by Richard Coe
My Good-For-Nothing by Emily Huntington Miller
My Mother by Anonymous

Remembering Mom

While We Have Them by Amos Russel Wells
Mother's Way by Abram Joseph Ryan
Rock Me to Sleep by Elizabeth Akers Allen
My Mother's Picture by Louise Chandler Moulton
My Mother's Kiss by Frances E. W. Harper
My Mother's Voice by Mary E. Tucker
To My Mother by Margaret Miller Davidson
My Mother's Hands by Anonymous

More Poems About Mothers

One Word by Raymond Garfield Dandridge
Song of an Indian Mother by John Brainard
The Young Mother by Lydia Howard Sigourney
Trust. by John Greenleaf Whittier
Excerpt from "Upon her soothing breast" by Emily Bronte
The Widow's Lullaby by Hannah Flagg Gould
My Mother by Anonymous
A Mother's Gift—The Bible by Anonymous
Mothers by Annette Wynne
The Mother Moon by Louisa May Alcott

Poems About Mothers

The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.

– William Ross Wallace
The Hand That Rocks the Cradle

“

To Mother

by Thomas W. Fessenden

►
▼

Full Text

You painted no Madonnas
On chapel walls in Rome,
But with a touch diviner
You lived one in your home.

You wrote no lofty poems
That critics counted art,
But with a nobler vision
You lived them in your heart.

You carved no shapeless marble
To some high-souled design,
But with a finer sculpture
You shaped this soul of mine.

You built no great cathedrals
That centuries applaud,
But with a grace exquisite
Your life cathedraled God.

Had I the gift of Raphael,
Or Michelangelo,
Oh, what a rare Madonna
My mother's life would show!
To My Mother

by Lucretia Maria Davidson

►
▼

Full Text

O thou whose care sustained my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove;

To thee my lay is due, the simple song,
Which Nature gave me at life's opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.

O say, amid this wilderness of life,
What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me?
Who would have smiled responsive? — who in grief,
Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee?

Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye,
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart, with love's bright tear?

Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip,
In all the agony of love and woe?

None but a mother — none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch;
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom —
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,
That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.

O then, to thee, this rude and simple song,
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.
My Mother

by Ann Taylor

►
▼

Full Text

Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray
And love God’s holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way?
My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who wast so very kind to me,
My Mother?

Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare
I hope I shall reward they care,
My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old and grey,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My Mother.
To My Mother

The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of “Mother,”

– Edgar Allan Poe
To My Mother

“

by Edgar Allan Poe

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of “Mother,”
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother—my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
"To My First Love, My Mother"

by Christina Rossetti

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart’s quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my loadstar while I go and come
And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.
To the Best of Women, My Mother

by Arthur H. Adams

►
▼

Full Text

I would give it all up at a word from you, Mother o' mine!
But the strife has begun
That I dare not shun:
Yet my heart looks home to the rest it knew,
To the questionless trust and the welcome true;
And you call to me now as you used to do, Mother o' mine!
The wonderful years that we shared are flown, Mother o' mine!

The world has won
The heart of your son;
The child has died in the man full grown;
The path of my life I must tread alone,
And I dare not return when you call your own, Mother o' mine!

My heart in the chill of the world grows cold, Mother o' mine!
But lives may run
Ere your love be done,
And the child I remember you still
In the passionate peace of your heart's warm hold —
For ever for you I'm the child of old, Mother o' mine!
To My Mother

by Robert Louis Stevenson

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.
Written By The Sick Bed Of My Honored Mother

by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

►
▼

Full Text

The form so belov'd, is fading away,
And the bosom is heaving with sighs;
The beating pulse flies, her life must decay,
For hope, her mild radiance denies.

Dear mother, the guide of my earliest days,
Who so oft hath soothed my grief,
If gratitude, ever such kindness repays,
My bosom would here find relief.

No proffer of friendship, e'er made me depart,
In childhood or youth, from thy care;
The voice of my mother still liv'd in my heart,
For love seal'd her image best there.

The sound of the viol is dead to my soul,
The song of the serenade too;
I wait but to hear the knell that must toll
That sound which comports with my wo.

I would not repine, though nature must die,
And leave me awhile, here to weep;
She dies but to live—her Savior is nigh,—
On His arm, she reposes in sleep.

Poems About Motherhood

The Hand That Rocks the Cradle

by William Ross Wallace

►
▼

Full Text

Blessings on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace.
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Infancy's the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mothers first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow—
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Woman, how divine your mission,
Here upon our natal sod;
Keep—oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky—
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
The Bravest Battle Ever Fought

by Joaquin Miller

►
▼

Full Text

The bravest battle that ever was fought!
Shall I tell you where and when?
On the maps of the world you will find it not;
'Twas fought by the mothers of men.

Nay not with the cannon of battle-shot,
With a sword or noble pen;
Nay, not with eloquent words or thought
From mouth of wonderful men!

But deep in a walled-up woman's heart —
Of a woman that would not yield,
But bravely, silently bore her part —
Lo, there is the battlefield!

No marshalling troops, no bivouac song,
No banner to gleam and wave;
But oh! those battles, they last so long —
From babyhood to the grave.

Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars,
She fights in her walled-up town —
Fights on and on in her endless wars,
Then silent, unseen—goes down.

Oh, ye with banners and battle-shot,
And soldiers to shout and paise!
I tell you the kingliest victories fought
Were fought in those silent ways.

O spotless woman in a world of shame,
With splendid and silent scorn,
Go back to God as white as you came —
The Kingliest warrior born!
Motherhood

by C. S. Calverley

►
▼

Full Text

She laid it where the sunbeams fall
Unscann’d upon the broken wall.
Without a tear, without a groan,
She laid it near a mighty stone,
Which some rude swain had haply cast
Thither in sport, long ages past,
And Time with mosses had o’erlaid,
And fenced with many a tall grassblade,
And all about bid roses bloom
And violets shed their soft perfume.
There, in its cool and quiet bed,
She set her burden down and fled:
Nor flung, all eager to escape,
One glance upon the perfect shape
That lay, still warm and fresh and fair,
But motionless and soundless there.

No human eye had mark’d her pass
Across the linden-shadow’d grass
Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven:
Only the innocent birds of heaven—
The magpie, and the rook whose nest
Swings as the elmtree waves his crest—
And the lithe cricket, and the hoar
And huge-limb’d hound that guards the door,
Look’d on when, as a summer wind
That, passing, leaves no trace behind,
All unapparell’d, barefoot all,
She ran to that old ruin’d wall,
To leave upon the chill dank earth
(For ah! she never knew its worth)
’Mid hemlock rank, and fern, and ling,
And dews of night, that precious thing!

And there it might have lain forlorn
From morn till eve, from eve to morn:
But that, by some wild impulse led,
The mother, ere she turn’d and fled,
One moment stood erect and high;
Then pour’d into the silent sky
A cry so jubilant, so strange,
That Alice—as she strove to range
Her rebel ringlets at her glass—
Sprang up and gazed across the grass;
Shook back those curls so fair to see,
Clapp’d her soft hands in childish glee;
And shriek’d—her sweet face all aglow,
Her very limbs with rapture shaking—
“My hen has laid an egg, I know;
“And only hear the noise she’s making!”
Old-Fashioned Letters

by Edgar A. Guest

►
▼

Full Text

I wonder if he'll stop to think,
When the long years have traveled by,
Who heard his plea: "I want a drink!"
Who was the first to hear him cry?
I wonder if he will recall
The patience of her and the smile,
The kisses after every fall,
The love that lasted all the while?

I wonder, as I watch them there,
If he'll remember, when he's grown,
How came the silver in her hair
And why her loveliness has flown?
Yet thus my mother did for me,
Night after night and day by day,
For such a care I used to be,
As such a boy I used to play.

I know that I was always sure
Of tenderness at mother's knee,
That every hurt of mine she'd cure,
And every fault she'd fail to see.
But who recalls the tears she shed,
And all the wishes gratified,
The eager journeys to his bed,
The pleas which never she denied?

I took for granted, just as he,
The boundless love that mother gives,
But watching them I've come to see
Time teaches every man who lives
How much of him is not his own;
And now I know the countless ways
By which her love for me was shown,
And I recall forgotten days.

Perhaps some day a little chap
As like him as he's now like me,
Shall climb into his mother's lap,
For comfort and for sympathy,
And he shall know what now I know,
And see through eyes a trifle dim,
The mother of the long ago
Who daily spent her strength for him.
Motherhood

by Mathilde Blind

►
▼

Full Text

From out the font of being, undefiled,
A life hath been upheaved with struggle and pain;
Safe in her arms a mother holds again
That dearest miracle—a new-born child.
To moans of anguish terrible and wild—
As shrieks the night-wind through an ill-shut pane—
Pure heaven succeeds; and after fiery strain
Victorious woman smiles serenely mild.

Yea, shall she not rejoice, shall not her frame
Thrill with a mystic rapture! At this birth,
The soul now kindled by her vital flame
May it not prove a gift of priceless worth?
Some saviour of his kind whose starry fame
Shall bring a brightness to the darkened earth.
Masterpieces

by Ethel Hueston

►
▼

Full Text

Give me my pen,
For I would write fine thoughts, pure thoughts,
To touch men's hearts with tenderness,
To fire with zeal for service grim,
To cheer with mirth when skies are dull;
Give me my pen,
For I would write a masterpiece.

Yet stay a while,
For I must put away these toys,
And wash this chubby, grimy face,
And kiss this little hurting bruise,
And hum a bedtime lullaby
Take back the pen:
This is a woman's masterpiece.
The Mother

by Georgia Douglas Johnson

►
▼

Full Text

The mother soothes her mantled child
With incantation sad and wild;
A deep compassion brims her eye
And stills upon her lips, the sigh.

Her thoughts are leaping down the years,
O'er branding bars, through seething tears,
Her heart is sandaling his feet
Adown the world's corroding street.

Then, with a start she dons a smile
His tender yearnings to beguile,
And only God will ever know
The wordless measure of her woe.
My Goal

by Ruth Markley Buchannan

►
▼

Full Text

I want to be a dear old-fashioned mother,
Just like the one who loved and cared for me,
Who guided and directed through my childhood
And made me all I am or hope to be.

I want to know just how to soothe a heartache
And comfort when the eyes are wet with tears;
Just how to lead unknowing little footsteps
In paths of right to follow through the years.

If I can be a dear old-fashioned mother
And fill the place that mine has filled for me,
Be worthy of the love of trusting children—
'Tis all I ask or ever long to be.

Mother's Prayer

A Mother's Prayer

by Anonymous

Oh give me patience when wee hands
Tug at me with their small demands.
And give me gentle and smiling eyes.
Keep my lips from hasty replies.

And let not weariness, confusion, or noise
Obscure my vision of life's fleeting joys.
So when, in years to come my house is still—
No bitter memories its room may fill.
A Mother's Prayer

by Anonymous

►
▼

Full Text

Dear Lord, It’s such a hectic day,
With little time to stop and pray,
For Life’s been anything but calm,
Since You called me to be a Mom,

Running errands, matching socks,
Building dreams with matching blocks,
Cooking, cleaning, finding shoes,
And other stuff that children lose,

Fitting lids on bottled bugs,
Wiping tears and giving hugs,
A stack of last week’s mail to read,
So where’s the quiet time I need?

Yet, when I steal a moment, Lord,
Just at the sink or ironing board,
To ask the blessings of Your grace,
I see them, in my small one’s face,

That you have blessed me
All the while —
And I stoop to kiss
That precious smile.
A Mother's prayer

by Anonymous

►
▼

Full Text

The things I never told you I'd like to tell you now;
Of feelings held contentedly inside my heart to swell;
Of thoughts and dreams, wants and happiness too;
A Mother's prayer to finally share with you.
Lord, govern their lives as you have mine,
Touch them with Your sweet divine,
Make them happy, guide their paths,
Tickle their funny bones, let me hear their laughs.

Dry the tears sliding down their faces,
Hold their hands when the love heart races,
Make them stand tall when the burdens are great,
Prepare them to carry the loads of fate.
Heal the hurts and sufferings of the spirit,
Make them listen until they hear it;
That sweet song of yours that will touch their soul
And carry them forward until they are old.
Lord, let them see the meaning of life,
Protect them from the evils of strife,
Gently guide them in the path of your ways,
I pray, Lord, I pray for them everyday.
I know, Lord, that I fell short many times;
In my guidance as "Mom" there were crimes,
Times that I failed to help them see
The beauty that you have bestowed around me.
Take their hands and lead them forward
Give them strength to avoid the coward
And evil ones that lurk about
Waiting` to swallow them up and shout
The conquest of their gentle soul
Provide them the coin to pass the toll.
Please make things right, Lord, once again
To help them to see the meaning of friend
And loved ones that hold them close to the heart
With a Mother that loves them, never apart.
My Mother's Bible

George P. Morris (b. 1802, d. 1864) was born in Philadelphia. In 1823 he became one of the editors of the "New York Mirror," a weekly literary paper, In 1846 Mr. Morris and N. P. Willis founded "The Home Journal." He was associate editor of this popular journal until a short time before his death.

►
▼

Full Text

This book is all that's left me now,—
Tears will unbidden start,—
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.
For many generations past
Here is our family tree;
My mother's hands this Bible clasped,
She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those
Whose names these records bear;
Who round the hearthstone used to close,
After the evening prayer,
And speak of what these pages said
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters, dear;
How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who loved God's word to hear!
Her angel face,—I see it yet!
What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the walls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;
When all were false, I found thee true,
My counselor and guide.
The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy;
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

Mother's Love

Mothers—And Others

by Anonymous

►
▼

Full Text

Others weary of the noise,
Mothers play with girls and boys.

Others scold because we fell,
Mothers "kiss and make it well."

Others work with patient will,
Mothers labor later still.

Others' love is more or less,
Mothers love with steadiness.

Others pardon, hating yet;
Mothers pardon and forget.

Others keep the ancient score,
Mothers never shut the door.

Others grow incredulous,
Mothers still believe in us.

Others throw their faith away,
Mothers pray. and pray, and pray.
To Annie

"A mother's love no tongue can tell —
How boundless is that sea"

– Mary E. Tucker
To Annie

“

by Mary E. Tucker

►
▼

Full Text

Annie, my first-born, gentle child,
My tender, fragile flower;
Why twines thy image round my heart,
With such mysterious power?

Is it because thy infant wail
The icy barrier moved,
That bound my soul's affections fast?
I knew 'twas mine I loved.

A mother's love no tongue can tell —
How boundless is that sea!
'Twas never mine; her spirit fled,
As she gave birth to me.

Annie, I gave to thee, my child,
The love my heart could yield;
God grant its influence o'er thee cast
From all life's ills a shield.
A Mother's Jewels

by Arthur Weir

►
▼

Full Text

The daughter of a hundred earls,
No jewels has with mine to mate,
Though she may wear in flawless pearls
The ransom of a mighty state.

Hers glitter for the world to see,
But chill the breast where they recline:
My jewels warmly compass me,
And all their brilliancy is mine.

My diamonds are my baby's eyes,
His lips, sole rubies that I crave:
They came to me from Paradise,
And not through labors of the slave.

My darling's arms my necklace make,
'Tis Love that links his feeble hands,
And Death, alone, that chain can break,
And rob me of those priceless bands.
A Mother's Grief and Joy

by Hannah Flagg Gould

►
▼

Full Text

I could not lift my voice to sing,
Nor touch my harp, to sweep a string;
And this world's joy and music seemed
As things whereof I had but dreamed.
For Death's pale angel stood so near
My only child, I could but Fear
And watch; or, bow my soul in prayer,
That He who governs Death, would spare
My tender infant's life—would save
My heart from bursting o'er its grave.

Ere yet twelve moons had silvered earth,
Since this bright being had its birth—
Before the soft, endearing word
Of 'MOTHER,' from its lips was heard,
The smiles that lit its beaming face
To marks of pain had given place.
Its cheek was wan, its languid eye
Rose feebly, as, to ask me why
I dropped from mine the tear of grief,
And did not give my babe relief.

The sides seemed overspread with gloom
Deep as the shades that fill the tomb,
And earth's bright blossoms, past away,
While my sweet flow'ret fading lay.
And, when I prayed—'Thy will be done!'
Strong nature cried, 'O, be it one,
That shall my sinking babe restore!
And, Father, I will ask no more
Than that this froward will of mine
May here be swallowed up in thine!'

I know not how this double prayer
Of little faith and great despair,
Could e'er have reached the mercy-seat
A gracious answer there to meet!
But this sure word rebuked my fears,
'To reap in joy, ye sow in tears.'
Then He, who gave it, beard my cries,
And caused the star of hope to rise
Upon my soul with cheering ray,
A blessed herald of the day.

And, since my heavenly Father smiled
Arid kindly gave me back my child,
The roses that its cheek resume
Have clothed the earth, to me, with bloom!
Its laughing eye to mine, is bright
Enough to fill the world with light!
There's music on the balmy air;
There's joy and glory every where!
I'll wake my harp—my voice I'll raise
And give to God my hymn of praise.
Excerpt from "The Affectionate Father"

She lives to see her children blest,
To crown her for her care,
She dies with truth and grace possess'd
She enters heaven with prayer.

– Eliza Wolcott
The Affectionate Father

“

by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

But who can tell a mother's love,
When her devotions rise,
Her infant's lips are taught to move,
To gain the heavenly prize.

She lives to see her children blest,
To crown her for her care,
She dies with truth and grace possess'd
She enters heaven with prayer.
Mother and the Baby

by Edgar A. Guest

►
▼

Full Text

Mother and the baby! Oh, I know no lovelier pair,
For all the dreams of all the world are hovering 'round them there;
And be the baby in his cot or nestling in her arms,
The picture they present is one with never-fading charms.

Mother and the baby—and the mother's eye aglow
With joys that only mothers see and only mothers know!
And here is all there is to strife and all there is to fame,
And all that men have struggled for since first a baby came.

I never see this lovely pair nor hear the mother sing
The lullabies of babyhood, but I start wondering
How much of every man to-day the world thinks wise or brave
Is of the songs his mother sang and of the strength she gave.

"Just like a mother!" Oh, to be so tender and so true,
No man has reached so high a plane with all he's dared to do.
And yet, I think she understands, with every step she takes
And every care that she bestows, it is the man she makes.

Mother and the baby! And in fancy I can see
Her life being given gladly to the man that is to be,
And from her strength and sacrifice and from her lullabies,
She dreams and hopes and nightly prays a strong man shall arise.
August Afternoon

by Hilda Conkling

Sea-blue of gentian,
Blackberries ebony stain,
Yellow of goldenrod,
Tree fringes wavering along the road
Under the hill,
These make up an August afternoon
I have known:
But more than fruit or flower or tree
Is my mother's love I hold
In my heart.
Cornelia's Jewels

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

►
▼

Full Text

Among the haughtiest of her sex, in noble, quiet pride,
Cornelia stood, with mien that seemed their folly vain to chide:
No jewels sparkled on her brow, so high, so purely fair,
No gems were mingled ’mid her waves of dark and glossy hair;
And yet was she, amidst them all, despite their dazzling mien,
A woman in her gentle grace—in majesty a queen.

While some now showed their flashing gems with vain, exulting air,
And others boasted of their toys, their trinkets rich and rare,
And challenged her to treasures bring that shone with equal light,
Proudly she glanced her dark eye o’er the store of jewels bright.
“Rich as these are,” she answered then, “and dazzling as they shine,
They cannot for one hour compete in beauty rare with mine!

“You all seem doubtful, and a smile of scorn your features wear,
Look on my gems, and say if yours are but one half as fair?”
The Roman matron proudly placed her children in their sight
Whose brows already bore the seal of intellectual might;
She pressed them to her, whilst each trait with radiance seemed to shine,
And murmur’d: “Tell me, dare you say, your jewels outshine mine?”
The Patch

Joseph Warren Gardiner

►
▼

Full Text

When I see, beside the way,
The little urchin there at play,
With a patch on either knee,
What is it that impresses me?
Memory of a mother dear,
Laid long since upon her bier,
Who, when I was young and small,
Darned and mended for us all.

Patiently, with thread and thimble,
Eyes yet clear and fingers nimble,
While we nestled close in bed,
Through the patch the needle sped.
Hence the patch so comely, neat,
On little trousers knee or seat,
Speaks to me of comfort near,
Of a home and mother dear.

New clothes fit and trim may be
Worn by urchins whom we see;
Rags may flutter on the street,
Shoeless boys or shod may meet;
Still to us no sign they give,
Save that poor or rich they live,
Boys who wear the neat patch prove
A mother's care, a mother's love.

Love For Mom

Love Your Mother, Little One

by Richard Coe

►
▼

Full Text

Love your mother, little one,
Love her tenderly;
Clasp your little arms around her,
For a holy tie has bound her—
Bound her close to you!
Love your mother, little one,
Love her tenderly!

Love your mother, little one,
Love her earnestly;
Gaze into her eyes, and see there—
All that you could hope to be there—
Warmest love for you!
Love your mother, little one,
Love her earnestly!

Love your mother, little one,
Love her fervently;
By your couch she kneeleth nightly,
And, with hands enclasped tightly,
Prays, love, for you!
Love your mother, little one,
Love her fervently!

Love your mother, little one,
Love her tenderly;
Clasp your little arms around her,
For a holy tie has bound her—
Bound her close to you!
Love your mother, little one,
Love her tenderly!
My Good-For-Nothing

by Emily Huntington Miller

►
▼

Full Text

"What are you good for, my brave little man?
Answer that question for me, if you can,—
You, with your fingers as white as a nun,—
You, with your ringlets as bright as the sun.
All the day long, with your busy contriving,
Into all mischief and fun you are driving;
See if your wise little noddle can tell
What you are good for. Now ponder it well."

Over the carpet the dear little feet
Came with a patter to climb on my seat;
Two merry eyes, full of frolic and glee,
Under their lashes looked up unto me;
Two little hands pressing soft on my face,
Drew me down close in a loving embrace;
Two rosy lips gave the answer so true,
"Good to love you, mamma, good to love you."
My Mother

by Anonymous

►
▼

Full Text

Hark! My mother's voice I hear,
Sweet that voice is to my ear;
Ever soft, it seems to tell,
Dearest child, I love thee well.

Love me, mother? Yes, I know
None can love so well as thou.
Was it not upon thy breast
I was taught to sleep and rest?

Didst thou not, in hours of pain,
Lull this head to ease again?
With the music of thy voice,
Bid my little heart rejoice?

Ever gentle, meek and mild,
Thou didst nurse thy fretful child.
Teach these little feet the road
Leading on to heaven and God.

What return then can I make?
This fond heart, dear mother take;
Thine its, in word and thought,
Thine by constant kindness bought.

Remembering Mom

While We Have Them

by Amos Russel Wells

►
▼

Full Text

There's no one like a mother lad,
To comfort all our pain;
There's no one like a father lad,
To make one smile again;
So while we have our mother boy,
Let's drive away her fear;
And while we have our father boy,
Let's fill his heart with cheer.

There's no one like a mother lad,
To keep us pure within;
There's no one like a father lad,
To warn away from sin;
So while we have our mother boy,
Oh let us not rebel;
And while we have our father boy,
Let's heed his warnings well.

The time is surely coming lad,
When mother will be gone;
The time is surely coming lad,
Of father's passing on;
So while we have our mother boy,
Let's make her spirit blest;
And while we have our father boy,
Let's be our very best.
Mother's Way

by Abram Joseph Ryan

►
▼

Full Text

Oft within our little cottage,
As the shadows gently fall,
While the sunlight touches softly
One sweet face upon the wall,
Do we gather close together,
And in hushed and tender tone
Ask each other's full forgiveness
For the wrong that each has done.
Should you wonder why this custom
At the ending of the day,
Eye and voice would quickly answer:
"It was once our mother's way."

If our home be bright and cheery,
If it holds a welcome true,
Opening wide its door of greeting
To the many — not the few;
If we share our father's bounty
With the needy day by day,
'Tis because our hearts remember
This was ever mother's way.

Sometimes when our hands grow weary,
Or our tasks seem very long;
When our burdens look too heavy,
And we deem the right all wrong;
Then we gain a new, fresh courage,
And we rise to proudly say:
"Let us do our duty bravely —
This was our dear mother's way."

Then we keep her memory precious,
While we never cease to pray
That at last, when lengthening shadows
Mark the evening of our day,
They may find us waiting calmly
To go home our mother's way.
Rock Me to Sleep

by Elizabeth Akers Allen

►
▼

Full Text

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
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 tonight 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 tonight,
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!
My Mother's Picture

by Louise Chandler Moulton

►
▼

Full Text

How shall I here her placid picture paint
With touch that shall be delicate, yet sure?
Soft hair above a brow so high and pure
Years have not soiled it with an earthly taint,
Needing no aureole to prove her saint;
Firm mind that no temptation could allure;
Soul strong to do heart stronger to endure;
And calm sweet lips that utter no complaint.

So have I seen her in my darkest days
And when her own most sacred ties were riven,
Walk tranquilly in self denying ways,
Asking for strength and sure it would be given;
Filling her life with lowly prayer high praise,—
So shall I see her if we meet in heaven.
My Mother's Kiss

by Frances E. W. Harper

►
▼

Full Text

My mother's kiss, my mother's kiss,
I feel its impress now;
As in the bright and happy days
She pressed it on my brow.

You say it is a fancied thing
Within my memory fraught;
To me it has a sacred place—
The treasure house of thought.

Again, I feel her fingers glide
Amid my clustering hair;
I see the love-light in her eyes,
When all my life was fair.

Again, I hear her gentle voice
In warning or in love.
How precious was the faith that taught
My soul of things above.

The music of her voice is stilled,
Her lips are paled in death.
As precious pearls I'll clasp her words
Until my latest breath.

The world has scattered round my path
Honor and wealth and fame;
But naught so precious as the thoughts
That gather round her name.

And friends have placed upon my brow
The laurels of renown;
But she first taught me how to wear
My manhood as a crown.

My hair is silvered o'er with age,
I'm longing to depart;
To clasp again my mother's hand,
And be a child at heart.

To roam with her the glory-land
Where saints and angels greet;
To cast our crowns with songs of love
At our Redeemer's feet.
My Mother's Voice

by Mary E. Tucker

►
▼

Full Text

Oh never on my youthful ear
A Mother's gentle accents broke!
The vital spark, from which I sprung,
Expired, as I to life awoke.

No mother pressed me to her breast,
And bade my childish heart rejoice.
For with my infant first-born wail,
Death hushed for aye my mother's voice.

Alone I climbed the dizzy height,
That led to never-dying fame,
I sought and won, and now I wear
A famous, but unenvied name.

Had she been near, to shield and guide
Her wayward, but her trustful child,
Rare flowerets would have bloomed where now
Are weeds in rank luxuriance, wild.

In visions, sometimes, I behold
Her form of heavenly loveliness;
She speaks, and o'er me gently bends,
And prints on my pale brow a kiss.

And I awake — 'tis but a dream!
But still the voice strikes on mine ear,
And from my callous heart calls forth
Up through mine eyes the scorching tear.

Then pass not judgment rash, or harsh,
On stern Misfortune's chosen child,
Who never heard a mother's voice,
On whom a mother never smiled!
To My Mother

by Margaret Miller Davidson

►
▼

Full Text

Oh, mother, would the power were mine
To wake the strain thou lovest to hear,
And breathe each trembling new-born thought
Within thy fondly-listening ear,
As when in days of health and glee,
My hopes and fancies wandered free.

But, mother, now a shade hath pass'd
Athwart my brightest visions here;
A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapp'd
The remnant of my brief career;
No song, no echo can I win,
The sparkling fount hath dried within.

The torch of earthly hope burns dim,
And fancy spreads her wings no more,
And oh, how vain and trivial seem
The pleasures that I prized before;
My soul, with trembling steps and slow,
Is struggling on through doubt and strife
Oh, may it prove, as time rolls on,
The pathway to eternal life!
Then when my cares and fears are o'er,
I'll sing thee as in "days of yore."

I said that Hope had passed from earth,
'Twas but to fold her wings in heaven,
To whisper of the soul's new birth,
Of sinners saved and sins forgiven;
When mine are washed in tears away,
Then shall my spirit swell my lay.

When God shall guide my soul above,
By the soft chords of heavenly love—
When the vain cares of earth depart,
And tuneful voices swell my heart—
Then shall each word, each note I raise
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise,
And all not offered at His shrine,
Dear mother, I will place on thine.
My Mother's Hands

by Anonymous

►
▼

Full Text

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
They're neither white nor small;
And you, I know, would scarcely think
That they are fair at all.
I've looked on hands whose form and hue
A sculptor's dream might be;
Yet are those aged, wrinkled hands
More beautiful to me.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
Though heart were weary and sad,
Those patient hands kept toiling on,
That the children might be glad.
I always weep, as, looking back
To childhood's distant day,
I think how those hands rested not
When mine were at their play.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
They're growing feeble now,
For time and pain have left their mark
On hands and heart and brow.
Alas! alas! the nearing time,
And the sad, sad day to me,
When 'neath the daisies, out of sight,
These hands will folded be.

But oh! beyond this shadow land,
Where all is bright and fair,
I know full well these dear old hands
Will palms of victory bear;
Where crystal streams through endless years
Flow over golden sands,
And where the old grow young again,
I'll clasp my mother's hands.

More Poems About Mothers

One Word

by Raymond Garfield Dandridge

If I had mighty wings to fly,
I'd soar aloft in yonder sky,
And paint with fire, to never die,
One word—Mother!

Then far out on the desert waste,
In glist'ning sands again I'd trace,
So deep that naught could e'er erase,
One word—Mother!
Song of an Indian Mother

by John Brainard

►
▼

Full Text

"Sleep, child of my love! be thy slumber as light As the redbird's that nestles secure on the spray;
Be the visions that visit thee fairy and bright As the dewdrops that sparkle around with the ray!
Oh, soft flows the breath from thine innocent breast; In the wild wood, sleep cradles in roses thy head;
But her who protects thee, a wanderer unbless'd, He forsakes, or surrounds with his phantoms of dread.
I fear for thy father! why stays he so long On the shores where the wife of the giant was thrown,

And the sailor oft linger'd to hearken her song, So sad o'er the wave, ere she harden'd to stone.
He skims the blue tide in his birchen canoe, Where the foe in the moonbeams his path may descry;
The ball to its scope may speed rapid and true, And lost in the wave be thy father's death cry!
The POWER that is round us, whose presence is near, In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soul,
Protect that frail bark in its lonely career, And shield thee when roughly life's billows shall roll."
The Young Mother

by Lydia Howard Sigourney

►
▼

Full Text

There sat upon the parent's knee,
In love supremely bless'd,
An infant, fair and full of glee,
Caressing and caress'd,
While siren Hope, with gladness wild,
And eye cerulean blue,
Bent sweetly down to kiss the child,
And bless the mother too.

Then Memory came, with serious mien,
And, looking back the while,
Cast such a shadow o'er the scene
As dimm'd Affection's smile;
For still to Fancy's brightest hours
She gave a hue of care,
And bitter odours tinged the flowers
That wreathed her sunny hair.

But in the youthful mother's soul
Each cloud of gloom was brief,
Too pure her raptured feelings roll
To take the tint of grief;
Firm Faith around her idol boy
Its radiant mantle threw,
And claim'd for him a higher joy
Than Hope or Memory knew.
Trust.

by John Greenleaf Whittier

►
▼

Full Text

A picture memory brings to me:
I look across the years and see
Myself beside my mother's knee.

I feel her gentle hand restrain
My selfish moods, and know again
A child's blind sense of wrong and pain.

But wiser now, a man gray grown,
My childhood's needs are better known,
My mother's chastening love I own.

Gray grown, but in our Father's sight
A child still groping for the light
To read His works and ways aright.

I bow myself beneath His hand;
That pain itself for good was planned.
I trust, but cannot understand.

I fondly dream it needs must be
That, as my mother dealt with me,
So with His children dealeth He.

I wait, and trust the end will prove
That here and there, below, above,
The chastening heals, the pain is love!
Excerpt from "Upon her soothing breast"

by Emily Bronte

Upon her soothing breast
She lulled her little child,
A winter sunset in the west
A heav'nly glory smiled.
I gazed within thine earnest eyes
And read the sorrow brooding there;
I heard thy young breast torn with sighs,
And envied such despair.
The Widow's Lullaby

by Hannah Flagg Gould

►
▼

Full Text

Ah! slumber on, my darling boy,
Nor send the blissful dream away,
Which makes the smile of conscious joy
Across thy beauteous features play.

Thou think'st, perhaps, thy sire is here,
And clasps thee in a fond embrace;
Thou know'st not 't is thy mother's tear,
So warm upon thy dimpled face!

Thou hast not learned how still and cold,
The arms where thou believ'st thou art;
Nor dost thou know that mine infold
An orphan near a widow's heart!

And, shouldst thou at this moment wake,
I know what name thou'dst lisp the first;
To hear it called in vain, would make
This aching, swelling heart to burst!
My Mother

by Anonymous

►
▼

Full Text

Often into folly straying,
O, my mother! how I've grieved her!
Oft I've heard her for me praying,
Till the gushing tears relieved her;
And she gently rose and smiled,
Whispering, "God will keep my child."

She was youthful then, and sprightly,
Fondly on my father leaning,
Sweet she spoke, her eyes shone brightly,
And her words were full of meaning;
Now, an autumn leaf decayed;
I, perhaps, have made it fade.

But, whatever ills betide thee,
Mother, in them all I share;
In thy sickness watch beside thee,
And beside thee kneel in prayer.
Best of mothers! on my breast
Lean thy head, and sink to rest.
A Mother's Gift—The Bible

by Anonymous

►
▼

Full Text

Remember, love, who gave thee this,
When other days shall come,
When she who had thine earliest kiss,
Sleeps in her narrow home.
Remember! 'twas a mother gave
The gift to one she'd die to save!

That mother sought a pledge of love,
The holiest for her son,
And from the gifts of God above,
She chose a goodly one;
She chose for her beloved boy,
The source of light, and life, and joy.

She bade him keep the gift, that, when
The parting hour should come,
They might have hope to meet again
In an eternal home.
She said his faith in this would be
Sweet incense to her memory.

And should the scoffer, in his pride,
Laugh that fond faith to scorn,
And bid him cast the pledge aside,
That he from youth had borne,
She bade him pause, and ask his breast
If SHE or HE had loved him best.

A parent's blessing on her son
Goes with this holy thing;
The love that would retain the one,
Must to the other cling.
Remember! 'tis no idle toy:
A mother's gift! remember, boy.
Mothers

by Annette Wynne

Most good things—especially cakes and toys,
Don't go around among all the girls and boys,
And some must go without;
Some children have one good thing, some another—
I know a child who has no little brother,
But very fine it is that pretty nearly everybody has a mother—
And that's the best of all, no doubt.
The Mother Moon

by Louisa May Alcott

►
▼

Full Text

The moon upon the wide, wide sea,
All placidly looks down,
And smileth with her gentle face,
Though billows rage and frown.
Dark clouds may dim her brightness,
But soon they pass away,
And she shines out unaltered
O'er the little waves at play.
And 'mid the calm or tempest,
Wherever she may go,
Led on by her persuasion,
The restless sea must flow.

Just as the tranquil summer moon
Looks on the troubled sea,
Thy mother's calm and tender face,
Dear child, is watching thee.
Then banish every tempest,
Chase all your clouds away,
That in her smile-light placidly
Your happy heart may play!
Let cheerful looks and actions
Like shining ripples flow,
Obedient to the mother's will,
And singing as they go.
Mother o' Mine

by Rudyard Kipling

►
▼

Full Text

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!

Table of Contents

Poems About Mothers

Poems About Motherhood

Mother's Prayer

Mother's Love

Love For Mom

Remembering Mom

More Poems About Mothers

Poems About Mothers

Poems About Motherhood

Mother's Prayer

Mother's Love

Love For Mom

Remembering Mom

More Poems About Mothers

Related Poems

Follow Us On: