POEMS DEDICATED TO POET'S MOTHERS
(DOCKER'S PIZZICATO IS PLAYING)
TO MY MOTHER
BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-1894)
For love of unforgotten times,
And you may chance to hear once more
The little feet along the floor.
MY MOTHER
BY WILLIAM BELL SCOTT (1811-1890)
Only the breathing of the great sea rose
From far off, aiding that profound repose,
With regular pulse and pause within the gloom
Of twilight, as if some impending doom
Was now approaching; I sat moveless there,
Watching with tears and thoughts that were like prayer,
Till the hour struck, the thread dropp’d from the loom;
And the Bark pass’d in which freed souls are borne.
The dear still’d face lay there; that sound forlorn
Continued; I rose not, but long sat by:
And now my heart oft hears that sad seashore,
When she is in the far-off land, and I
Wait the dark sail returning yet once more.
A MEMORY OF YOUTH
BY W.B. YEATS (1865-1939)
I had the wisdom love brings forth;
I had my share of mother wit
And yet for all that I could say,
And though I had her praise for it,
A cloud blown from the cut-throat north
Suddenly hid love’s moon away.
Believing every word I said
I praised her body and her mind
Till pride had made her eyes grow bright,
And pleasure made her cheeks grow red,
And vanity her footfall light,
Yet we, for all that praise, could find
Nothing but darkness overhead.
We sat as silent as a stone,
We knew, though she’d not said a word,
That even the best of love must die,
And had been savagely undone
Were it not that love upon the cry
Of a most ridiculous little bird
Tore from the clouds his marvellous moon.
TO MY MOTHER
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849)
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.
THE WITCH IN THE GLASS
BY SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT
Too near that glass;
She is afraid that I will see
A little witch that looks like me,
With a red, red mouth to whisper low
The very thing I should not know!
Alack for all your mother’s care!
A bird of the air,
A wistful wind, or (I suppose
Sent by some hapless boy) a rose,
With breath too sweet, will whisper low
The very thing you should not know!
SONGS FOR MY MOTHER
BY ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH
They can do anything.
Delicate mercies hide them there
Like flowers in the spring.
When I was small and could not sleep,
She used to come to me,
And with my cheek upon her hand
How sure my rest would be.
For everything she ever touched
Of beautiful or fine,
Their memories living in her hands
Would warm that sleep of mine.
Her hands remember how they played
One time in meadow streams,
And all the flickering song and shade
Of water took my dreams.
Swift through her haunted fingers pass
Memories of garden things;
I dipped my face in flowers and grass
And sounds of hidden wings.
One time she touched the cloud that kissed
Brown pastures bleak and far;
I leaned my cheek into a mist
And thought I was a star.
All this was very long ago
And I am grown; but yet
The hand that lured my slumber so
I never can forget.
For still when drowsiness comes on
It seems so soft and cool,
Shaped happily beneath my cheek,
Hollow and beautiful.
Of words and words and words.
Her talk comes out as smooth and sleek
As breasts of singing birds.
She shapes her speech all silver fine
Because she loves it so.
And her own eyes begin to shine
To hear her stories grow.
And if she goes to make a call
Or out to take a walk
We leave our work when she returns
And run to hear her talk.
We had not dreamed these things were so
Of sorrow and of mirth.
Her speech is as a thousand eyes
Through which we see the earth.
God wove a web of loveliness,
Of clouds and stars and birds,
But made not any thing at all
So beautiful as words.
They shine around our simple earth
With golden shadowings,
And every common thing they touch
Is exquisite with wings.
There’s nothing poor and nothing small
But is made fair with them.
They are the hands of living faith
That touch the garment’s hem.
They are as fair as bloom or air,
They shine like any star,
And I am rich who learned from her
How beautiful they are.
That is the end of this web! Come back again!
