Being His Mother.

    Being his mother - when he goes away
        I would not hold him overlong, and so
        Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O
    So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay
    To catch the faintest rumor of them!    Nay,
        Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although
        Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow;
    Let his remembered features, as I pray,
    Smile ever on me!    Ah! what stress of love
        Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise:
        Its fullest speech ever to be denied
    Mine own - being his mother!    All thereof
        Thou knowest only, looking from the skies
        As when not Christ alone was crucified.

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

Kneeling With Herrick

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Three Dead Friends.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Mulberry Tree

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Want To Be Whur Mother Is.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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A Mother-Song

Mother, O mother! forever I cry for you,
    Sing the old song I may never forget;
Even in slumber I murmur and sigh for you. -
    Mother, O mother,
        Sing low, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! the years are so lonely,
    Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret!
Can't you come back to me - for to-night only,
    Mother, my mother,
        And sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! of old I had never
    One wish denied me, nor trouble to fret;
Now - must I cry out all vainly forever, -
    Mother, sweet mother,
        O sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! must longing and sorrow

James Whitcomb Riley

My Mother's Kiss.

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;
B...

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

His Mother.

DEAD! my wayward boy - my own -
Not the Law's! but mine - the good
God's free gift to me alone,
Sanctified by motherhood.

"Bad," you say: Well, who is not?
"Brutal" - "with a heart of stone" -
And "red-handed." - Ah! the hot
Blood upon your own!

I come not, with downward eyes,
To plead for him shamedly, -
God did not apologize
When He gave the boy to me.

Simply, I make ready now
For His verdict. - You prepare -
You have killed us both - and how
Will you face us There!

James Whitcomb Riley

To My Mother

No foreign tribute from a stranger-hand,
Mother, I bring thee, whom not Heaven's songs
Would as an alien reach.... Ah, but how far
From Heaven's least heavenly is the changing note
And changing fancy of these fitful cries!
Mother, forgive them, as the best of me
Has ever pleaded only for thy pardon,
Not for thy praise.
Mother, there is a love
Men give to wives and children, lovers, friends;
There is a love which some men give to God.
Ah! between this, I think, and that last love,
Last and too-late-discovered love of God,
There shines--and nearer to the love of God--
The love a man gives only to his mother,
Whose travail of dear thought has never end
Until the End. Oh that my mouth had words
Comfortable as thy kisses to the boy
Who loved while he forg...

John Frederick Freeman

His Mother's Way

    Tomps 'ud allus haf to say
        Somepin' 'bout "his mother's way." -
    He lived hard-like - never jined
    Any church of any kind. -
    "It was Mother's way," says he,
    "To be good enough fer me
    And her too, - and certinly
        Lord has heerd her pray!"
    Propped up on his dyin' bed, -
    "Shore as Heaven's overhead,
    I'm a-goin' there," he said
        "It was Mother's way."

James Whitcomb Riley

When Mother Combed My Hair

When Memory, with gentle hand,
Has led me to that foreign land
Of childhood days, I long to be
Again the boy on bended knee,
With head a-bow, and drowsy smile
Hid in a mother's lap the while,
With tender touch and kindly care,
She bends above and combs my hair.

Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares
Had paled it to the hue it wears,
Its tangled threads of amber light
Fell o'er a forehead, fair and white,
That only knew the light caress
Of loving hands, or sudden press
Of kisses that were sifted there
The times when mother combed my hair.

But its last gleams of gold have slipped
Away; and Sorrow's manuscript
Is fashioned of the snowy brow -
So lined and underscored now
That you, to see it, scarce would guess
It e'er had fel...

James Whitcomb Riley