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 forgot thee! Now I love,
Sundered and far, with daily heart's remembrance
The face the wind brings to me, the sun lights,
The birds and waters sing; the face of thee
Whom I love with a love like love of God.

John Frederick Freeman

John Frederick Freeman was a British poet, notable as a Georgian poet. He was born in London and worked initially as an office boy and later as a clerk before gaining recognition for his poetic works. Freeman primarily wrote about nature, identity, and the human condition. Over the course of his literary career, he published several books of poetry, and his works were praised for their sincerity and technical excellence. His notable collections include 'Presage of Victory' and 'Stone Trees.'

John Frederick Freeman

Some Hurt Thing

John Frederick Freeman, Simple Poetry

The Valley

John Frederick Freeman, Simple Poetry

Fear

John Frederick Freeman, Simple Poetry

The Song Of The Forest

John Frederick Freeman, Simple Poetry

English

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Wisdom And A Mother

Why, mourner, do you mourn, nor see
The heavenly Earth's felicity?

I mourn for him, my Dearest, lost,
Who lived a frail life at my cost.

A grief like yours how many have known!

Were that a balm to ease my own!
Or rather might I not accuse
The Hand that does not even choose,
But, taking blindly, took my best,
And as indifferently takes the rest ...
Like mine? Is there denied to me
Even Sorrow's singularity?

John Frederick Freeman

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

The Songs That Mother Used To Sing.

    The songs that mother used to sing!
        How tenderly those ditties roll,
        And to the dirges in my soul
    The happy notes of gladness bring!
    Where'er my vagrant feet may roam
    From pleasures of my childhood's home,
    This life of mine with rapture throngs,
    When thinking of my mother's songs.

    They were not made of magic lays;
        No perfect melodies were found,
        That with the strains of fairy sound
    Would charm the stranger's ear to praise;
    But I can never hope to meet
    Another music half so sweet,
    And all my longing love will cling
    To songs that mother used to sing.

    With gentleness of crooning cries,
        She freed the aching limbs from pain,
        And lulled the eyes ...

Freeman Edwin Miller

To My Mother

Once more the Christian festival is near,
And I, for whom each day repeats all days
Continuously in ecstasy of praise,
Loves birthday lasting through the unending year,
Am dreaming how the spirit draws me sheer
From farthest wandering in the illusive maze
To that white centre whose creative blaze
Spun me aloft and sets me tremulous here.
And since all heaven is figured in my heart,
As in a dewdrop ere it change and live
There shines the glory of the eternal dome,
Mother, to you the showering meteors dart
Of free affection, fancies fugitive,
And flare, with increasing heat and splendour, home.

John Le Gay Brereton

To Mother

I would that you should know,
Dear mother, that I love you -- love you so!
That I remember other days and years;
Remember childish joys and childish fears.
And this, because my baby's little hand
Opened my own heart's door and made me understand.

I wonder how you could
Be always kind and good!
So quick to hear; to tend
My smallest ills; to lend
Such sympathising ears
Swifter than ancient seer's.
I never yet knew hands so soft and kind,
Nor any cheek so smooth, nor any mind
So full of tender thoughts. . . . Dear mother, now
I think that I can guess a little how
You must have looked for some response, some sign,
That all my tiresome wayward heart was thine.

And sure it was! You were my first dear love!
You who first pointed me to God a...

Fay Inchfawn

Ad Matrem Dolorosam

    Think not thy little fountain's rain
        That in the sunlight rose and flashed,
    From the bright sky has fallen again,
        To cold and shadowy silence dashed.
    The Joy that in her radiance leapt
    From everlasting hath not slept.

    The hand that to thy hand was dear,
        The untroubled eyes that mirrored thine,
    The voice that gave thy soul to hear
        A whisper of the Love Divine--
    What though the gold was mixed with dust?
    The gold is thine and cannot rust.

    Nor fear, because thy darling's heart
        No longer beats with mortal life,
    That she has missed the ennobling part
        Of human growth and human strife.
    Only she has the eternal peace
    Wherein to reap the soul's increase.

Henry John Newbolt