Deserted
No, mother, I am not sad:
Why think me sad? I was always still,
You remember, even when my heart was most glad
And you used to let me dream at my will;
And now I like better to watch the sea
And the calm sad sky than to laugh with the rest.
You know they are full of chatter and glee,
And I like the quietness best.
Nay, mother, you look so grave.
I know what you're thinking and will not say;
But you need not fear; I am growing brave
Now that the pain is passing away,
And I never weep for him now when alone,
For perhaps it was better -- who can tell? --
That it ended so. I shall soon be well
Now that the hardest is known.
I am so much stronger to-day
I can look at all past and think how it grew
And how by degrees it faded away,
That light of my life. Ah! when I first knew
I had only been a plaything to him
Through all my loving, it seemed so strange.
If the high noontide at once grew night-dim
It would not be such a change.
I wonder I did not die.
Mother, I'll own it you now I am strong,
I used to wake in the night and lie
Wishing and wishing it might not be long --
Oh! it was wicked, and you all so kind,
How could I wish to bring you a grief?
But too much unhappiness makes one blind
To all but one's own relief.
I am not so wicked now;
You need not fear. I am hoping that still,
I am learning to lean on God, and I bow,
Yes I think I bow my heart to His will.
I found it a long hard struggle to make,
To clasp my sorrow and say "It is best,"
But, believe it, you need not fear for my sake;
Yes, mother, I am at rest:
Yet, listen, if I should die soon --
And I know what they say, though you hide it from me --
Mother, you'll grant me my last-asked boon,
That you'll try not to think it his fault, and if he,
Mother, if he should seek you some day,
You will not make him a hard reply,
But tell him, before I passed away,
I sent him kind good-bye.
Mother, kiss me, do not cry.
I could not keep from speaking of this;
It is nothing to say "If I should die,"
It cannot bring death more near than it is;
And I am much stronger. You shall not weep --
Who is it tells me that weeping is wrong?
But let me lean on your lap and sleep,
I lay waking last night too long.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Related quotes
Our Captain's Last Words
Where the foremost flag was flying,
Pierce'd by manny a shot and shell,
Where the bravest men were dying,
There our gallant captain fell.
"Boys! you follow now another;
Follow till the foe shall yield;"
Then he whisper'd, "Tell my mother
Stephen died upon the field."
"Mother!"
"Moth er!"
"Stephen died upon the field."
Through the battle they bore him,
But his words were growing wild;
Heeding not the scenes before him,
Stephen was once more a child.
"Ah, she comes! there is no other
Speaks my name with such a joy;
Press me to your bosom, mother,
Call my still your darling joy."
"Mother!"
"Mother !"
"Call my still your darling joy."
Men who were not used to weeping,
Turn'd aside to hide a tear,
When they saw the pallor creeping,
That assured them death was near.
Kindly as he were a brother,
Strangers caught his parting breath,
Laden with the mumur "mother"
Last upon his lips in death.
"Mother!"
"Mother!&qu ot;
Last upon his lips in death.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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The night wind
Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"?
'T is a pitiful sound to hear!
It seems to chill you through and through
With a strange and speechless fear.
'T is the voice of the night that broods outside
When folk should be asleep,
And many and many's the time I've cried
To the darkness brooding far and wide
Over the land and the deep:
Whom do you want, O lonely night,
That you wail the long hours through?"
And the night would say in its ghostly way:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"
My mother told me long ago
(When I was a little tad)
That when the night went wailing so,
Somebody had been bad;
And then, when I was snug in bed,
Whither I had been sent,
With the blankets pulled up round my head,
I'd think of what my mother'd said,
And wonder what boy she meant!
And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask
Of the wind that hoarsely blew,
And the voice would say in its meaningful way:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"
That this was true I must allow -
You'll not believe it, though!
Yes, though I'm quite a model now,
I was not always so.
And if you doubt what things I say,
Suppose you make the test;
Suppose, when you've been bad some day
And up to bed are sent away
From mother and the rest -
Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?"
And then you'll hear what's true;
For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"
poem by Eugene Field
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An Old Story
(Retold in Rhyme)
They threw him in a prison cell;
He moaned upon his bed.
And when he crept from coils of hell:
"Last night you killed," they said.
"last night in drunken rage you slew
A being brave with breath;
A radiant soul, because of you
Lies dark in death."
"last night I killed," he moaned distraught,
"When I was wild with wine;
I slew, and I remember naught . . .
O Mother, Mother mine!
"To what unbridled rage may lead
You taught me at your knew.
Why did I not your warning heed . . .
And now - the gallows tree.
"O Mother, Mother, come to me,
For I am sore distrest,
And I would kneel beside your knee
And weep upon your breast. . . ."
They stared at him; their lips were dumb,
Their eyes tear filled;
Then spoke the Priest: "She cannot come . . .
'Twas she you killed."
poem by Robert William Service
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That One Should Have Lived Longer
In my mother house
There was a cat among some cats
As the drifted away
Mother was no where to be found
But at the market place
A page in mother's diary
Read "My simple cat will be in charge as mother leaves"
A watch, security, maid, keeper, cook, servant! !
How ever they chose to call him
He still remained as he
Others of his kind were "catting" mother's fish their own
Almost every kind lambasted him
But he still remained he
And said to himself "quiet conscience gives me strength"
For his simplicity saved his name in mother's diary
As at noon and afternoon
Cat busy finishing his day's task before mother comes back
Mother shall come back soon that he knew
This cat made peace with mice
He was called the MICEFRIEND
As dusk loomed large
To explode in the sky for night to come
Night comes for mother to come
But cat's task seemed like it was never enough
As a day was assumed to be enough
Cat went across the street to get dinner ready
Peeep! Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! !
The public bus has ran over the cat
The cat fell cold and dead
With a day's task unfinished
Who shall continue his left duties?
Who would mother say congrats if mother comes back home?
As dusk loomed larger and had exploded darkness for the night to rule
Mother came back from the market place
And the league of the extraordinary cat was ended
poem by by unknown author
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My Infant Days
Air -- "The Rain upon the Roof"
When I was a little infant,
And I lay in mother's arms,
Then I felt the gentle pressure
Of a loving mother's arms.
"Go to sleep my little baby,
Go to sleep," mamma would say;
"Oh, will not my little lady
Go to sleep for ma to-day."
Oh! my parents loved me dearly,
For I was their eldest born,
And they always called me Julia
In a mild and loving form.
My parents will not forget me,
Though I married and left their home,
For they can remember clearly
How with them I once did roam.
Oh! my mother, how I love her,
Though her head is growing gray,
For in fancy I can see her
Bending o'er me night and day,
As she did when I was little,
Watching me in sleep and play --
Mother now is growing feeble,
Now I will her love repay.
Oh! my father, how I love him,
For he has worked hard for me,
For to earn my food and clothing,
In my little infancy.
And oh, I will not forget him,
While on earth I do remain --
May the God of heaven bless him
In this world of grief and pain.
poem by Julia A Moore
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My Real Goddess
Today my mother
Came to my house
With lots of blessing
And full of good wishing
To live long
Happy and healthy
Progressive and wealthy
My mother
My sweet mother
My beautiful mother
My loving mother
My real goddess
My ever goodness
My first lady I loved
My life my mother
My soul my mother
My God-gift my mother
My pride my mother
My aim my mother
My teacher my mother
My friend my mother
My preacher my mother
My daughter's face look-like my mother
My daughter my little mother
O the Absolute Almighty
Give me my mother
Again and again
And again and again
My mother
Only my mother.
poem by Dr. P. K. Verma
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To My Mother
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you-
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother- my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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Goodbye Mother Dear
Mother, mother, mother dear,
Can you hold me close, can you hold me near?
Mother, mother, oh mother dear,
Will you listen, listen to my words of fear?
Mother, I am inside your womb.
Mother, you hold the key.
Mother, is it too late, too soon?
Mother, what do you see?
I hear your heart beat, beat, beat,
It comforts me when I am asleep.
I feel your warmth, I feel your heat,
But mother dear, I feel you weep.
Mother, I am so full of fear.
Mother, I see it in your tear.
Mother, I know you cry and why.
Mother, I know we must say goodbye.
(if only you could let me grow
my love to you then i could show
but that i know cannot be so
the time has come for me to go)
Mother, mother, mother dear,
Do not feel guilt, do not feel fear.
Mother, mother, oh mother dear,
For a while, you held me near.
© Morney Wilson
poem by Morney Wilson
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The Sonnet-ballad
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
They took my lover's tallness off to war,
Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess
What I can use an empty heart-cup for.
He won't be coming back here any more.
Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew
When he went walking grandly out that door
That my sweet love would have to be untrue.
Would have to be untrue. Would have to court
Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange
Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort)
Can make a hard man hesitate--and change.
And he will be the one to stammer, "Yes."
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
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Michael
"There's something in your face, Michael, I've seen it all the day;
There's something quare that wasn't there when first ye wint away. . . ."
"It's just the Army life, mother, the drill, the left and right,
That puts the stiffinin' in yer spine and locks yer jaw up tight. . . ."
"There's something in your eyes, Michael, an' how they stare and stare --
You're lookin' at me now, me boy, as if I wasn't there. . . ."
"It's just the things I've seen, mother, the sights that come and come,
A bit o' broken, bloody pulp that used to be a chum. . . ."
"There's something on your heart, Michael, that makes ye wake at night,
And often when I hear ye moan, I trimble in me fright. . . ."
"It's just a man I killed, mother, a mother's son like me;
It seems he's always hauntin' me, he'll never let me be. . . ."
"But maybe he was bad, Michael, maybe it was right
To kill the inimy you hate in fair and honest fight. . . ."
"I did not hate at all, mother; he never did me harm;
I think he was a lad like me, who worked upon a farm. . . ."
"And what's it all about, Michael; why did you have to go,
A quiet, peaceful lad like you, and we were happy so? . . ."
"It's thim that's up above, mother, it's thim that sits an' rules;
We've got to fight the wars they make, it's us as are the fools. . . ."
"And what will be the end, Michael, and what's the use, I say,
Of fightin' if whoever wins it's us that's got to pay? . . ."
"Oh, it will be the end, mother, when lads like him and me,
That sweat to feed the ones above, decide that we'll be free. . . ."
"And when will that day come, Michael, and when will fightin' cease,
And simple folks may till their soil and live and love in peace? . . ."
"It's coming soon and soon, mother, it's nearer every day,
When only men who work and sweat will have a word to say;
When all who earn their honest bread in every land and soil
Will claim the Brotherhood of Man, the Comradeship of Toil;
When we, the Workers, all demand: `What are we fighting for?' . . .
Then, then we'll end that stupid crime, that devil's madness -- War."
poem by Robert William Service
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My Future
"Let's make him a sailor," said Father,
"And he will adventure the sea."
"A soldier," said Mother, "is rather
What I would prefer him to be."
"A lawyer," said Father, "would please me,
For then he could draw up my will."
"A doctor," said Mother, "would ease me;
Maybe he could give me a pill."
Said Father: "Lt's make him a curate,
A Bishop in gaiters to be."
Said Mother: "I couldn't endure it
To have Willie preaching to me."
Said Father: ""Let him be a poet;
So often he's gathering wool."
Said Mother with temper: "Oh stow it!
You know it, a poet's a fool."
Said Farther: "Your son is a duffer,
A stupid and mischievous elf."
Said Mother, who's rather a huffer:
"That's right - he takes after yourself."
Controlling parental emotion
They turned to me, seeking a cue,
And sudden conceived the bright notion
To ask what I wanted to do.
Said I: "my ambition is modest:
A clown in a circus I'd be,
And turn somersaults in the sawdust
With audience laughing at me."
. . . Poor parents! they're dead and decaying,
But I am a clown as you see;
And though in no circus I'm playing,
How people are laughing at me!
poem by Robert William Service
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The Angel's Kiss
An angel stood beside the bed
Where lay the living and the dead.
He gave the mother -- her who died --
A kiss that Christ the Crucified
Had sent to greet the weary soul
When, worn and faint, it reached its goal.
He gave the infant kisses twain,
One on the breast, one on the brain.
"Go forth into the world," he said,
"With blessings on your heart and head,
"For God, who ruleth righteously,
Hath ordered that to such as be
"From birth deprived of mother's love,
I bring His blessing from above;
"But if the mother's life he spare
Then she is made God's messenger
"To kiss and pray that heart and brain
May go through life without a stain."
The infant moved towards the light,
The angel spread his wings in flight.
But each man carries to his grave
The kisses that in hopes to save
The angel or his mother gave.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Disobedience
James James
Morrison Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great
Care of his Mother,
Though he was only three.
James James Said to his Mother,
"Mother," he said, said he;
"You must never go down
to the end of the town,
if you don't go down with me."
James James
Morrison's Mother
Put on a golden gown.
James James Morrison's Mother
Drove to the end of the town.
James James Morrison's Mother
Said to herself, said she:
"I can get right down
to the end of the town
and be back in time for tea."
King John
Put up a notice,
"LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED!
JAMES JAMES MORRISON'S MOTHER
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID.
LAST SEEN
WANDERING VAGUELY:
QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD,
SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN
TO THE END OF THE TOWN -
FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD!"
James James
Morrison Morrison
(Commonly known as Jim)
Told his
Other relations
Not to go blaming him.
James James
Said to his Mother,
"Mother," he said, said he:
"You must never go down to the end of the town
without consulting me."
James James
Morrison's mother
Hasn't been heard of since.
King John said he was sorry,
So did the Queen and Prince.
King John
(Somebody told me)
Said to a man he knew:
If people go down to the end of the town, well,
what can anyone do?"
(Now then, very softly)
J.J.
M.M.
W.G.Du P.
Took great
C/0 his M*****
Though he was only 3.
J.J. said to his M*****
"M*****," he said, said he:
"You-must-never-go-down-to-the-end-of -the-town-
if-you-don't-go-down-with-ME!"
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Crucifix
Do not cry for me, Mother, seeing me in the grave.
I
This greatest hour was hallowed and thandered
By angel's choirs; fire melted sky.
He asked his Father:"Why am I abandoned...?"
And told his Mother: "Mother, do not cry..."
II
Magdalena struggled, cried and moaned.
Peter sank into the stone trance...
Only there, where Mother stood alone,
None has dared cast a single glance.
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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The End
It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.
When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out
your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not
here!"-mother, I am going.
I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you and
I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and
kiss you again.
In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you
will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with
the lightning through the open window into your room.
If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the
night, I shall sing to you from the stars, "Sleep, mother, sleep."
One the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and
lie upon your bosom while you sleep.
I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your
eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you
wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall
flit out into the darkness.
When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours' children
come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the
flute and throb in your heart all day.
Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask,"Where
is our baby, sister?" Mother, you will tell her softly, "He is in
the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul."
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Lord Randall
"Oh where ha'e ye been, Lord Randall, my son!
And where ha'e ye been, my handsome young man!"
"I ha'e been to the wild wood: mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"An wha met ye there, Lord Randall, my son?
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?"
"I dined wi my true-love; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"And what did she give you, Lord Randall, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?"
"Eels fried in broo; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randall, my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?"
"My hawks and my hounds; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"What become a yer bloodhounds, Lord Randall, my son?
What become a yer bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"
"They swelled and they died; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi huntin, and fain wad lie doon."
"O I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son!
I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man!"
"O yes, I am poisoned; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick at m' heart, and I fain wad lie doon."
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Lord Randall
"Oh where ha'e ye been, Lord Randall, my son!
And where ha'e ye been, my handsome young man!"
"I ha'e been to the wild wood: mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"An wha met ye there, Lord Randall, my son?
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?"
"I dined wi my true-love; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"And what did she give you, Lord Randall, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?"
"Eels fried in broo; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randall, my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?"
"My hawks and my hounds; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon."
"What become a yer bloodhounds, Lord Randall, my son?
What become a yer bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"
"They swelled and they died; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi huntin, and fain wad lie doon."
"O I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son!
I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man!"
"O yes, I am poisoned; mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm sick at m' heart, and I fain wad lie doon."
Phantom Footsteps
Childish foosteps, just behind her,
Softly patter on the green.
Back she glances; tears may blind her,
But no little one is seen.
Blanched, as by an ill appalling,
Home in terror hastens she,
While a baby voice is calling,
"Mother! mother! wait for me."
Phantom footsteps! hear them
falling (falling, falling),
falling (falling, falling)
Now, wherever she may be!
(hear footsteps falling!)
While a baby voice is
call- (calling, calling,)
-ing, (calling, calling,)
"Mother! mother! wait for me."
Sobbing still, but never lagging,
Soon she enters the gate,
And before her, on the flagging,
Sees the symbols of her fate:
Tiny shoeprints, plainly speaking
Of the salt and foamy sea.
Hark! was that the doorhinge creaking?
"Mother! mother! wait for me."
Half her night is spent in weeping,
Ere she can forget her cares:
Is there not an infant creeping--
Creeping slowly up the stairs?
Venturing thither in her yearning,
Only shadows can she see;
But she hears the cry while turning,
"Mother! mother! wait for me."
poem by Henry Clay Work
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Sympathy
If I were only a little puppy, not your baby, mother dear, would
you say "No" to me if I tried to eat from your dish?
Would you drive me off, saying to me, "Get away, you naughty
little puppy?"
Then go, mother, go! I will never come to you when you call
me, and never let you feed me any more.
If I were only a little green parrot, and not your baby,
mother dear, would you keep me chained lest I should fly away?
Would you shake your finger at me and say, "What an ungrateful
wretch of a bird! It is gnawing at its chain day and night?"
The go, mother, go! I will run away into the woods; I will
never let you take me in your arms again.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Fiddle-Dee-Dee
There once was a bird that lived up in a tree,
And all he could whistle was "Fiddle-dee-dee" -
A very provoking, unmusical song
For one to be whistling the summer day long!
Yet always contented and busy was he
With that vocal recurrence of "Fiddle-dee-dee."
Hard by lived a brave little soldier of four,
That weird iteration repented him sore;
"I prithee, Dear-Mother-Mine! fetch me my gun,
For, by our St. Didy! the deed must be done
That shall presently rid all creation and me
Of that ominous bird and his 'Fiddle-dee-dee'!"
Then out came Dear-Mother-Mine, bringing her son
His awfully truculent little red gun;
The stock was of pine and the barrel of tin,
The "bang" it came out where the bullet went in -
The right kind of weapon I think you'll agree
For slaying all fowl that go "Fiddle-dee-dee"!
The brave little soldier quoth never a word,
But he up and he drew a straight bead on that bird;
And, while that vain creature provokingly sang,
The gun it went off with a terrible bang!
Then loud laughed the youth - "By my Bottle," cried he,
I've put a quietus on 'Fiddle-dee-dee'!"
Out came then Dear-Mother-Mine, saying: "My son,
Right well have you wrought with your little red gun!
Hereafter no evil at all need I fear,
With such a brave soldier as You-My-Love here!"
She kissed the dear boy.
(The bird in the tree
Continued to whistle his "Fiddle-dee-dee")
poem by Eugene Field
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