Beautiful Mothers Day Poetry

When mother says, "Do this," or "that,"

Don't say, "What for?" and "Why?"

But let her hear your gentle voice

Say, "Mother dear, I'll try."

~ Charles J. Barnes

Mother's Eyes

What are the songs the mother sings?

Of birds and flowers and pretty things;

Baby lies in her arms and spies

All his world in the mother's eyes.

What are the tales the mother tells?

Of gems and jewels and silver bells;

Baby lies in her arms and spies

All his wealth in the mother's eyes.

What are the thoughts in the mother's mind?

Of the gentle Saviour, loving and kind;

Baby lies in her arms and spies

All his heaven in the mother's eyes.

~ Mary D. B. Hull

My Mother

Who fed me from her gentle breast,

And hush'd me in her arms to rest,

And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?

My Mother.

When sleep forsook my open eyes,

Who was it sung sweet lullaby,

And soothed me that I should not cry?

My Mother.

Who sat and watch'd my infant head,

When sleeping on my cozy bed;

And tears of sweet affection shed?

My Mother.

Who lov'd to see me pleased and gay,

And taught me sweetly how to play,

And minded all I had to say?

My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell.

And would some pretty story tell.

Or kiss the place and make it well?

My Mother.

Who taught my infant heart to pray,

And love God's holy book and day;

And taught me wisdom's pleasant way?

My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be

Affectionate and kind to thee,

Who was so very kind to me,

My Mother?

Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear,

And if God please my life to spare,

I hope I shall reward thy care,

My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head,

'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,

And tears of sweet affection shed,

My Mother.

For God, who lives above the skies,

Would look with vengeance in his eyes,

If I should ever dare despise

My Mother.

~ Anne Taylor

Somebody's Mother

The woman was old and ragged and gray

And bent with the chill of the winter's day.

The street was wet with the recent snow,

And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long

Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by,

Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout.

Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"

Came the boys like a flock of sheep,

Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and gray

Hastened the children on their way,

Nor offered a helping hand to her,

So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet

Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop,

The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her and whispered low,

"I'll help you across if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong young arm

She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,

He guided her trembling feet along,

Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went,

His young heart happy and well content.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,

For all she's aged and poor and slow;

"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand

To help my mother, you understand,

If ever she's poor and old and gray,

When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head

In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was, "God be kind to the noble boy

Who is somebody's son and pride and joy."

~ Anonymous

The Old Arm-chair

I love it, I love it; and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would ye learn the spell? - a mother sat there;

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near

The hallowed seat with listening ear;

And gentle words that mother would give;

To fit me to die, and teach me to live.

She told me shame would never betide,

With truth for my creed and God for my guide;

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer;

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey:

And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,

And turned from her Bible, to bless her child.

Years rolled on; but the last one sped -

My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled:

I learnt how much the heart can bear,

When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now

With quivering breath and throbbing brow:

'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died:

And Memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;

But I love it, I love it and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

~ by Eliza Cook

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;

But naught so precious as the thoughts

That gather round her name.

And friends have placed upon my brow

The laurels of renown;

But she first taught me how to wear

My manhood as a crown.

My hair is silvered o'er with age,

I'm longing to depart;

To clasp again my mother's hand,

And be a child at heart.

To roam with her the glory-land

Where saints and angels greet;

To cast our crowns with songs of love

At our Redeemer's feet.

~ Frances E. W. Harper