Mother’s Day is the one day of the year when all of our attention turns towards our mothers. It is a holiday about showing your mom how much she means to you, saying thank you for those 9 long months you spent in her womb, and for all the other years after your birth when she had care for you. Now that you have grown, you realize the insurmountable amount of tender love, care and dedication your mother gave to you. And even though you may never truly be able to repay her for raising and caring for you, you can let her know how special she is to you.
Instead of showering your mother in overpriced gifts, and candy, why not give her a truly touching gift. They always say the best gifts come from the heart (or the internet) so for Mother’s Day 2017, give your mom the gift of love and poetry, by writing out one of these beautiful Mother’s Day poems in her card. If you mom is sentimental then she will most likely cherish the hand written poem and keep it as a keepsake forever. So here are the top 7 Mother’s Day poems that are guaranteed to make your mom cry!
“The Little Boy Found” by William Blake
The little boy lost in the lonely fen, Led by the wandering light, Began to cry, but God ever nigh, Appeared like his father in white. He kissed the child & by the hand led And to his mother brought, Who in sorrow pale, thro’ the lonely dale Her little boy weeping sought.
Before the Birth of One of Her Children” by Anne Bradstreet
All things within this fading world hath end, Adversity doth still our joys attend; no ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet, But with deaths parting blow are are sure to meet. The sentence past is most irrevocable, A common thing, yet oh, inevitable. How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend. How soon’t may be thy lot to lose thy friend, we are both ignorant, yet love bids me. These farewell lines to recommend to thee,
That when that knot’s untied that made us one,
I may seem thine, who in effect am none.
And if I see not half my dayes that’s due,
What nature would, God grant to yours and you;
The many faults that well you know I have
Let be interr’d in my oblivious grave;
If any worth or virtue were in me,
Let that live freshly in thy memory
And when thou feel’st no grief, as I no harms,
Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms.
And when thy loss shall be repaid with gains
Look to my little babes, my dear remains.
And if thou love thyself, or loved’st me,
These o protect from step Dames injury.
And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse,
With some sad sighs honour my absent Herse;
And kiss this paper for thy loves dear sake,
Who with salt tears this last Farewel did take.
“To My Mother” by Edgar Allen 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.
“Unfolded out of the Folds” by Walt Whitman
Unfolded out of the folds of the woman, man comes unfolded, as is always to come unfolded, Unfolded only out of the superbest woman of the earth, is to come the superbest man of the earth, Unfolded out of the friendliest woman, is to come the friendliest man, Unfolded only out of the perfect body of a woman, can a man be formed of perfect body, Unfolded only out of the inimitable poem of the woman, can come the poems of man—only thence have my poems come, Unfolded out of the strong and arrogant woman I love, only thence can appear the strong and arrogant man I love, Unfolded by brawny embraces from the well-muscled woman I love, only thence come the brawny embraces of the man, Unfolded out of the folds of the woman’s brain, come all the folds of the man’s brain, duly obedient, Unfolded out of the justice of the woman, all justice is unfolded, Unfolded out of the sympathy of the woman is all sympathy; A man is a great thing upon the earth, and through eternity—but every jot of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman, First the man is shaped in the woman, he can then be shaped in himself.
“Sonnets are full of love” by Christina Rossetti
Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome Has many sonnets: so here now shall be One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me To her whose heart is my heart’s quiet home, To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome; Whose service is my special dignity, And she my loadstar while I go and come And so because you love me, and because I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name: In you not fourscore years can dim the flame Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws Of time and change and mortal life and death.
“My Mother” by Claude McKay
Reg wished me to go with him to the field, I paused because I did not want to go; But in her quiet way she made me yield Reluctantly, for she was breathing low. Her hand she slowly lifted from her lap And, smiling sadly in the old sweet way, She pointed to the nail where hung my cap. Her eyes said: I shall last another day. But scarcely had we reached the distant place, When o’er the hills we heard a faint bell ringing; A boy came running up with frightened face; We knew the fatal news that he was bringing. I heard him listlessly, without a moan, Although the only one I loved was gone. The dawn departs, the morning is begun, The trades come whispering from off the seas, The fields of corn are golden in the sun, The dark-brown tassels fluttering in the breeze; The bell is sounding and the children pass, Frog-leaping, skipping, shouting, laughing shrill, Down the red road, over the pasture-grass, Up to the school-house crumbling on the hill. The older folk are at their peaceful toil, Some pulling up the weeds, some plucking corn, And others breaking up the sun-baked soil. Float, faintly-scented breeze, at early morn Over the earth where mortals sow and reap— Beneath its breast my mother lies asleep.
“Mother o’ Mine” by Rudyard Kipling
If I were hanged on the highest hill, Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine I know whose love would follow me still, Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine! If I were drowned in the deepest sea, Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine I know whose tears would come down to me, Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine! If I were damned of body and soul, I know whose prayers would make me whole, Mother o’ mine, 0 mother o’ mine!
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