To My Mother.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.


They tell us of an Indian tree,
    Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
    And shoot and blossom wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
    Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life that, fills and warms
    Its grateful being, first had birth.
'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends,
    And fed with fame (if fame it be)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
    With love's true instinct, back to thee!

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

There Are Sounds Of Mirth.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Sing, Sweet Harp.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Wandering Bard.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Animal Magnetism.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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To My Mother

Thine is my all, how little when 'tis told
    Beside thy gold!
Thine the first peace, and mine the livelong strife;
Thine the clear dawn, and mine the night of life;
    Thine the unstained belief,
    Darkened in grief.

Scarce even a flower but thine its beauty and name,
    Dimmed, yet the same;
Never in twilight comes the moon to me,
Stealing thro' those far woods, but tells of thee,
    Falls, dear, on my wild heart,
    And takes thy part.

Thou art the child, and I - how steeped in age!
    A blotted page
From that clear, little book life's taken away:
How could I read it, dear, so dark the day?
    Be it all memory
    'Twixt thee and me!

Walter De La Mare

To .......

That wrinkle, when first I espied it,
    At once put my heart out of pain;
Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,
    Disturbed my ideas again.

Thou art just in the twilight at present,
    When woman's declension begins;
When, fading from all that is pleasant,
    She bids a good night to her sins.

Yet thou still art so lovely to me,
    I would sooner, my exquisite mother!
Repose in the sunset of thee,
    Than bask in the noon of another.

Thomas Moore

To My Mother.

With filial duty I address thee, Mother,
Thou dearest tie which this world's wealth possesses;
Endearing name! no language owns another
That half the tenderness and love expresses;
The very word itself breathes the affection,
Which heaves the bosom of a luckless child
To thank thee, for that care and that protection,
Which once, where fortune frowns, so sweetly smil'd.
Ah, oft fond memory leaves its pillow'd anguish,
To think when in thy arms my sleep was sound;
And now my startled tear oft views thee languish,
And fain would drop its honey in the wound:
But I am doom'd the sad reverse to see,
Where the worst pain I feel, is loss of helping thee.

John Clare

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

To .... ....

And hast thou marked the pensive shade,
    That many a time obscures my brow,
Midst all the joys, beloved maid.
    Which thou canst give, and only thou?

Oh! 'tis not that I then forget
    The bright looks that before me shine;
For never throbbed a bosom yet
    Could feel their witchery, like mine.

When bashful on my bosom hid,
    And blushing to have felt so blest,
Thou dost but lift thy languid lid
    Again to close it on my breast;--

Yes,--these are minutes all thine own,
    Thine own to give, and mine to feel;
Yet even in them, my heart has known
    The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.

For I have thought of former hours,
    When he who first thy soul possest,
Like me awaked its witching powers,
    Like me was...

Thomas Moore

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