The Modern Mother

    Oh what a kiss
With filial passion overcharged is this!
    To this misgiving breast
The child runs, as a child ne'er ran to rest
Upon the light heart and the unoppressed.

    Unhoped, unsought!
A little tenderness, this mother thought
    The utmost of her meed
She looked for gratitude; content indeed
With thus much that her nine years' love had bought.

    Nay, even with less.
This mother, giver of life, death, peace, distress,
    Desired ah! not so much
Thanks as forgiveness; and the passing touch
Expected, and the slight, the brief caress.

    Oh filial light
Strong in these childish eyes, these new, these bright
    Intelligible stars! Their rays
Are near the constant earth, guides in the maze,
Natural, true, keen in this dusk of days.

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell was an English writer, editor, critic, and suffragist, now remembered mainly as a poet. She was born in London, and wrote her first poetry collection, "Preludes" (1875). In addition to her literary works, Meynell was a committed supporter of women's suffrage and worked as an editor for various publications. Her poetry often explored themes of spirituality, nature, and love.

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

Sonnet

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell, Simple Poetry

Cradle-Song At Twilight

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell, Simple Poetry

Song Of The Spring To The Summer

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell, Simple Poetry

Song

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell, Simple Poetry

English

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The Modern Mother

    Oh what a kiss
With filial passion overcharged is this!
    To this misgiving breast
The child runs, as a child ne'er ran to rest
Upon the light heart and the unoppressed.

    Unhoped, unsought!
A little tenderness, this mother thought
    The utmost of her meed
She looked for gratitude; content indeed
With thus much that her nine years' love had bought.

    Nay, even with less.
This mother, giver of life, death, peace, distress,
    Desired ah! not so much
Thanks as forgiveness; and the passing touch
Expected, and the slight, the brief caress.

    Oh filial light
Strong in these childish eyes, these new, these bright
    Intelligible stars! Their rays
Are near the constant earth, guides in the maze,
Natural, true, keen in ...

Alice Meynell

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

Motherhood.

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
Swi...

Charles Stuart Calverley

To a Rebellious Daughter

You call authority "a grievous thing."
With careless hands you snap the leading string,
And, for a frolic (so it seems to you),
Put off the old love, and put on the new.

For "What does Mother know of love?" you say.
"Did her soul ever thrill?
Did little tendernesses ever creep
Into her dreams, and over-ride her will?
Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap
As my heart leaps to-day?
I, who am young; who long to try my wings!

How should she understand,
She, with her calm cool hand?
She never felt such yearnings? And, beside,
It's clear I can't be tied
For ever to my mother's apron strings."

There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear.
And there are mysteries, not yet made clear
To you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's book
Is open, ye...

Fay Inchfawn

Maternal Grief

Departed Child! I could forget thee once
Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful gain
Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul
Is present and perpetually abides
A shadow, never, never to be displaced
By the returning substance, seen or touched,
Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace.
Absence and death how differ they! and how
Shall I admit that nothing can restore
What one short sigh so easily removed?
Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought,
Assist me, God, their boundaries to know,
O teach me calm submission to thy Will!
The Child she mourned had overstepped the pale
Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air
That sanctifies its confines, and partook
Reflected beams of that celestial light
To all the Little-ones on sinful earth
Not unvouchsaf...

William Wordsworth

The Emigrant Mother

Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,
In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,
Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
Such things as she unto the Babe might say:
And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,
My song the workings of her heart expressed.

I

"Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy mother!
An infant's face and looks are thine,
And sure a ...

William Wordsworth