The Mother.

Yes, Lord, I know! The child is thine
And in thy house he shall grow up.
Nor know the lash of life, nor cup
Of trembling, as if child of mine.

But ah, forgive me!, is he warm?
And fed? Or does he miss my breast?
Oh, I blaspheme! But can he rest.
And never cry, in Mary's arm?

Margaret Steele Anderson

Margaret Steele Anderson was an American poet and author, born on October 8, 1867. She is known for her lyrical and expressive poetry, which often explores themes of nature, emotion, and personal reflection. Anderson's works include several published collections of poetry and prose that garnered critical acclaim during her lifetime. Though not as widely recognized today, her contributions to American literature remain significant. She passed away on October 7, 1921.

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Flame in the Wind

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

The Church.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

Beatrice.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

The Breaking.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Madonna Of The Veil.

Light through a little veil is all thy trace
    Of halo, blessed Child!
The sorrow of the world is in thy face,
    fair, undefiled!
    dear and undefiled!

The kneeling boy, with pretty lips apart,
    Half loves, half worships thee;
Baby and sweet, yet separate thou art
    To that simplicity,
    To that young piety!

But Mary's look no hint of anguish stirs;
    Perfect that motherhood;
One day the bitter sword, this day is hers;
    And, God!, how very good!
    gracious God! How good!

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Angel And The Child.

"0, was it on that awful road,
The way of death, you came?"
"It was a little road," he said,
"I never knew its name."

"Is it not rough along that road?"
"I cannot tell," said he,
"Up to your gate, in her two arms.
My mother carried me."

"And will you show me Christ?" he said,
"And must we seek Him far?"
"That is our Lord, with children round.
Where little blue-bells are."

"Why, so my mother sits at night,
When all the lights are dim!
0, would He mind, would it be right
If I should sit by Him?"

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Invalid Child.

When I see other women's sons at play,
God, pity me, lest I should turn away
In rage and grief, and should not dare to look
At my child, sitting patient with his book!

But when their sons hold all the world in fee,
With young men's pride, oh, then think not of me!
Load me with burdens, let me feel the rod,
And give my son his manhood, my God!

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Mother.

As "Peace on earth!" the glad world sings one glorious Christmas morn,
"Peace, peace on earth! Good-will to men! Peace, peace! the Christ is born!"
As through the courts, the wondrous courts, of heaven hosannas ring,
As harpers strike their harps of gold and "Glory! Glory!" sing,
        Upon the City's threshold fair
        A woman steps, and lingers there.

The eyes she turns on Peter's face with unshed tears are dim,
"Tell Christ," she says, "a mother waits who fain would speak with Him."
Through all the music, far above the highest, grandest note
Of triumph, and of joy and praise, her soft voice seems to float;
        And hearing it, straight from His throne
        Comes down to her the Kingly One
        With shining face and eyes that hold
            Such weal...

Jean Blewett

Maternal Hope

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps,
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps:
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies,
Smiles on her slumb'ring child with pensive eyes,
And weaves a song of melancholy joy:
"Sleep, image of thy father! sleep, my boy!
No ling'ring hour of sorrow shall be thine,
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine.
Bright, as his manly sire, the son shall be,
In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he!
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past;
With many a smile my solitude repay,
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.

"And say, when summon'd from the world and thee
I lay my head beneath the willow-tree,
And soothe may parted spirit ling'ring near?
O...

Thomas Campbell

The Shunamite.[A]

It was a sultry day of summer time.
The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain
With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves
Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills
Stood still, and the divided flock were all
Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots,
And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd
As if the air had fainted, and the pulse
Of nature had run down, and ceas'd to beat.

'Haste thee, my child!' the Syrian mother said,
'Thy father is athirst' - and from the depths
Of the cool well under the leaning tree,
She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts
Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart,
She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way
Committed him. And he went lightly on,
With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool
Stone vessel, ...

Nathaniel Parker Willis