Mother's Day Poems

Mother and Babe by Walt Whitman

I SEE the sleeping babe, nestling the breast of its mother;
The sleeping mother and babe-hush'd, I study them long and long.  

To My Mother   by Edgar Allan Poe

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.

To Mom by Anna Helen McDonald  

I'm thinking of you mom -- as the years go swiftly by
I start remembering little things and heave a happy sigh
It didn't seem so long ago, when I was just a child
I can't help wondering -- if sometimes I drove you wild
For now I've grown to be a mom myself
And there sits all my memories on the shelf
It's as though I'm looking through a mirror at my past
But find it's just my present -- passing by so fast
And now I know, dear mother, why you always said
Take time for your little ones -- one by one
Give love and understanding -- take time out for fun
Thank you mother for all my loving dreams
Cause now happiness abounds, it's bursting at the seams.

A Mother's Kiss by Frances E. W. Harper

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

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.

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