A Letter To A Daughter-In-Law

My own dear daughter:-from my heart at last,
At long, long last, I call you this sweet name;
(Before, lip-service only to my shame,
I admit it.) Today that time is past,
And now, I wonder at the foolish jealousy
I felt, when you became my tall lad's wife
It might have alienated him for life:
The apple of my eye! Oh, don't you see
I thought, through marriage, I had lost a son?
(Love, richer for the sharing, proves me wrong.
Instead-God bless you-I find I have won
The daughter my heart's hungered for so long.
I humbly sue for your affection. Dear,
When you come home, you'll find a mother here.

ETHEL RoMIG FULLER.

Mother

Her mind is a library where Dickens, Scott,
And the Harvard Classics lie dusty, forgot;
But where certain small books may always be had
Strange-tilted volumes that make her heart glad:
Must fix Jim's shirt
Buy Helen's skirt
Shoes for Dad. . .

Her heart is a music room where Shubert's, Lack's,
And Beethoven's works lie in cobwebby stacks;
But where songs well-dusted are always near;
Funny little songs whose names are so queer:
Little Helen's "whys"
Jim's twinkly eyes
Dad, my dear. . .

Her fingers are a game room where now unused
Lie tennis balls, whist cards, the old organ, bruised;
But where never a thought is given to those
Because she's a wonder at new games she knows:
Favorite desserts
Ironing shirts
Mending clothes

Her eyes are an observatory where Mercury,
Mars, Venus, Neptune are too distant to see;
But where certain bright stars make all others dim
Her oddly named planets that make her eyes brim:
Dad
Helen
Jim. ..

ETHEL BARNETT DE VITO.

Lesson

Have you seen anywhere a tall little lad
And a wee, winsome lass of four?
It was only today, barefooted and brown,
That they played by my kitchen door.
It was only today (or maybe a year:
It could not be twenty, I know),
They were shouting for me to help in their game
But I was too busy to go.
Too busy with sweeping and dusting to play,
And now they have silently wandered away.
Perchance you should hear of a slim little lad
And a small winsome lass of four,
I pray you to tell me; to find them again
I would journey the wide world o'er.
Somewhere, I am sure, they'll be playing a game,
And should they be calling for me
To come out and help, oh, tell them, I beg,
I'm coming as fast as can be.
For it's never a house would hold me today
Could I hear them call me to share in their play!

MINNIE CASE HOPKINS.

The Blessed Name of Mother

The noblest thoughts my soul can claim,
The holiest words my tongue can frame,
Unworthy are to praise the name,
More sacred than all other.

An infant when her love first came;
A man, I find it just the same;
Reverently I breathe her name
The blessed name of "Mother."

The Knight's Toast by Sir Walter Scott

The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine
In lordly cup is seen to shine
Before each eager guest;
And silence fills the crowded hall,
As deep as when the herald's call
Thrills in the loyal breast.

Then up arose the noble host,
And, smiling, cried: "A toast! a toast!
To all our ladies fair!
Here before all, I pledge the name
Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame,
The Ladye Gundamere!"

Then to his feet each gallant sprung,
And joyous was the shout that rung,
As Stanley gave the word;
And every cup was raised on high,
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry
Till Stanley's voice was heard.

"Enough, enough," he, smiling, said,
And lowly bent his haughty head;
"That all may have their due,
Now each in turn must play his part,
And pledge the lady of his heart,
Like gallant knight and true!"

Then one by one each guest sprang up,
And drained in turn the brimming cup,
And named the loved one's name;
And each, as hand on high he raised,
His lady's grace or beauty praised,
Her constancy and fame.

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise;
On him are fixed those countless eyes;—
A gallant knight is he;
Envied by some, admired by all,
Far famed in lady's bower and hall,—
The flower of chivalry.

St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And lifts the sparkling cup on high:
"I drink to one," he said,
"Whose image never may depart,
Deep graven on this grateful heart,
Till memory be dead.

"To one, whose love for me shall last
When lighter passions long have past,—
So holy 'tis and true;
To one, whose love hath longer dwelt,
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt,
Than any pledged by you."

Each guest upstarted at the word,
And laid a hand upon his sword,
With fury flashing eye;
And Stanley said: "We crave the name,
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame,
Whose love you count so high."

St. Leon paused, as if he would
Not breathe her name in careless mood,
Thus lightly to another;
Then bent his noble head, as though
To give that word the reverence due,
And gently said: "My Mother!"

Unemployed

Men slouching on park benches, drowsing.
Men listlessly waiting in bread lines, muttering
The factory closed!-hard times-depression'
Men grouping at the general merchandise store.
Men standing in corners sulking in the sun
Damning their fate-frost-drought-insects
Where are the women?
They are in little rooms, in huts, in tents.
Washing-scrubbing-mending-cooking
Rocking babies-nursing babies-soothing babies.
No machine can rob them of their work.
No one wishes to take their places.
Their hours can not be shortened.
Their wages can not be lowered.
They work at the trade that knows no unemployment.
The homely trade of Motherhood.

-Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni

For A First Night in Heaven

You see, dear Lord, Miss Sally never married,
And though she rocked many a babe to sleep,
They were merely loaned, they were not hers
To look upon with mother pride and keep.

She nursed new babies fully fifty years
She loved them when they smiled and when they cried.
I know tonight she'll miss her little ones,
For just one hour ago Miss Sally died.

She was my friend, and sensing how she feels,
I thought I'd write a note to tell you this;
So if you see her weeping you will know
She wants a little one to soothe and kiss.

On her first night in Heaven, please, dear Lord,
Give her a tiny one to rock to sleep
She'd rather have it than a golden harp.
She'll understand it's not her own to keep.

-Rosa Zagnoni Marinom

One that is very similar http://better-than-palgrave.blogspot.com/2014/08/prayer-for-very-new-angel.html

Mother

All that I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my sainted mother.

Abraham Lincoln

My Mother

Who fed me from her gentle breast
 And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet lullaby
And rocked me that I should not cry?
My mother.

Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping in my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My mother.

vVhen pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye
And wept, for fear that I should die?
My mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the part to make it well?
My mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
To love God's holy word and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?
My mother.

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee
Who wast so very kind to me,¬
My mother.

Oh no, the thought I cannot bear;
And if God please my life to spare
I hope I shall reward thy care,
My mother.

When thou art feeble, old and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
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.

Jane Taylor

A mother prays

I thank you, God, that I have known
 A child's moist hand within my own,
 And that my ears have heard the ring
 Of tuneless songs that children sing.
 I thank you for the warm delight
Of children's nearness in the night,
 And for the unimagined bliss
Of healing heartbreak with a kiss.

GOLDIE CAPERS SMITH.

the school bus takes my youngest

The school bus stopped a while ago and picked him up;
He climbed aboard as proud as Punch-and left his pup
And me disconsolate! Before, I always had
A baby left a smaller girl, a younger lad
 But now the littlest one is gone, and all the place
Has suddenly become so still I cannot face
The empty house indoors. I'm glad for rake and hoe,
For pruning shears, for flowers to tend. I'd like to know
What city mothers do, without some garden tool
To comfort them on Baby's first long day at school.

HAZEL M. KERR.

1st day at school

Today you talk of things of which I know
 Only your telling; how you measure sand
Or clap to music till your fingers glow,
 Or beat a drum with an unsteady hand.
 Your speech is full of toys I have not seen,
 A colored donkey, papers that you hook
 Together to make pictures, books between
 Whose painted covers I shall never look.
And I am glad for you that in this bright
 New world you hold, without me you have found
Wide eyes to turn upon the world of sight,
 Keen ears to lean unto the world of sound.
And only in my hidden heart I say
 That I begin to lose you from this day.

JESSIE CORRIGAN PEALS.

I like mud

I like mud.
 It makes good pies
'Cept when I splash It in my eyes.
Mud shoes are fun,
 But my mud hat wuzn't.
 I like mud
 But mummie doesn't.

MAREL SCHWARTZ.

Small gentlemen prefer moms

You single me from any crowd
 For your most ardent glances;
Your preference for me, rudely loud,
 Repels their kind advances.
The honor might be laid to love,
 But I've a strong suspicion:
To you I'm chiefly symbol of
 Fresh clothing and nutrition.

SUSIE LEE CUMMINGS.

Christmas letter from my son

 Hickam Field, Honolulu, Hawaii, U.S.A.
 (Peace? . . . There is no peace, I said. Only the ashes of the dead.
 Goodwill? . . . An earth of warring men, Hands at each other's throats again!)

 And then his letter came, from oversea. . . Strength in his lines-and wings of hope, for me! December 7th, 1942.
Dear Mom:
 A year can be so very brief: palm-shadows on the moon, a sunrise sea, the trade-cloud's pattern on a coral reef (to you who wait, a heart's eternity!) Perhaps, if I could make you understand me, the childlike faith these Island people show their reverence for the "Flag" and for their "Land," in this far outpost archipelago. If, somehow, I might bridge the sea-green space and bring you close-to see with your own eyes this happy melting-pot of every race, you would be quick to sanction, to realize the smug and narrow 'brotherhood' we boast, was like a promise never put to test. That, in our coward souls, we cherished most the Kipling fallacy of "East and West,"

 Out here; here trading schooners load their loot with cargoes colorful as South Seas' fruit, pearl shell from the Paumotus, breadfruit-green and angelfish of Island-rainbow sheen, copra and copra! and the burnished blues of seas, cerulean as Gulf Stream hues. Where frangipani lifts its luscious breath, while song and laughter temporize with death, where every landfall tempts the poet-pen and beauty, blighted, may not come again. Out here!

 But you are smiling, now, at me and saying, "After all, the boy is young: this is his first long voyage on the sea, youth will be youth, its songs must still be sung!"

 Perhaps I'm older than you really guess, War has a way of changing boy to man. (War, and a year of homesick loneliness!) A year is brief! A tropic Island span of dreamy days and nights of deeper dream¬ and former values are not what they seem. Now, I am pondering the price of Peace, when we have won, as never men may doubt! Will we, as leaders, guarantee surcease from War's atrocity? For not without the future welfare of mankind at heart will we maintain our power. And every race must own His wisdom- choose the wiser part; God's right is might. Hates flee before His face! You did not wish a preacher for a son¬ but, if this thing keeps on, you may have one! But, first, so great our tolerance is vexed! A sub-machine gun might be better text! And, rest assured, we'll fight for all we're worth, each mother's son, till Peace redeems this earth!

 Meanwhile, your letters, your sustaining love build us a rampart that you dream not of! This is not war, alone, of battlefield: each one of you at home wears shining shield! Our hero dead, out here beneath white leis¬ shall be avenged! More ships upon your way! Give us the planes, the wings, that's all we ask! Ours is the battlefront-but yours the task to' keep our courage--peace our battle cry!

 A lasting Peace. . . when war and hatred die. There will be other years when we may feast. . . Goodwill the host, then, West. . . to wiser East.
 Keep Christmas! And keep Faith within your heart.
 (Another year, we may not be apart!) .
 Your prayers, your letters. . . till this war is won!
 Chin up! . . .

 P. S. (I'd risk the guardhouse-and the dog-house, too
 If I could spend this Christmas Day. . . with you!)

 Aloha, now. . . Your Soldier Son.

BLANCHE DEGOOD LOTTON.

From somewhere in the Pacific

You mailed a snapshot from a foreign shore,
 Where warplanes zoom, and death itself is faced.
 On opening' it I caught the smile you wore,
And knew that grimmest horrors hadn't erased
 The boyish tenderness you always felt
 For every living creature while with me,
 And I rejoiced that carnage had not dealt
A blow to my son's innate charity.
Your men regard your orders when you call.
You stand erect, six feet in army clothes,
 Yet you're the boy who grieved at a robin's fall,
 And stooped to lift a crushed and trampled rose.
 Your snapshot cleared the tenseness in my breast,
 And so tonight I'll sleep in quiet rest.

 RACHEL LUMPKIN WYLY.

Eternal Triangle

At first, she used to say, "My mother-in-law."
Placing the accent on the last, cold word,
As if, in such a forced affair, she saw
A matter, legal but a trifle absurd.
During the second year, it got to be
"Dick's mother." After little Dick was born,
It turned to "Grandma Martin." Gradually,
That same, once strange relationship was shorn
Of every small antagonism; at last,
Became a peaceful, kind, familiar thing
Living renewal of my own dead past
A safeguard against all old age might bring
 And when, to-day; she said-"Dick's-mother-and-mine,"
 She set upon the words love's seal and sign.

VIOLET ALLEYN STOREY.

Home Hollow

There's a little valley where the path drops down;
A short way-a long way, out of trouble and town;
Green maize winding through woodland, copse and lea,
 For it's hidden in the mists of memory.
All the flowers of yesteryear blossom in its meadows;
All the cloud racks of today smile in rosy shadows;
The heart lifts glad wings, lightened of its load,
For there's Mother waiting at the bend of the road.
There's a little valley where a brook sings clear,
For pebbles, for grasses, for violets to hear.
Echoes chase each other through the hollow hills;
Day is filled with meadow larks, night with whippoorwills.
South wind's a-lullabying through the locust trees;
Katydid's a-chorusing with frogs and honey bees;
Night's falling, home's calling; faint from far away,
I hear Mother singing at the close of day.

-Mark Wayne Williams

mother's hope

Youth fades; loves droops,
the leaves of friendship fall;
A mother's secret hope outlives them all.

-Holmes

WHICH LOVED BEST?

"I love you, mother," said little John;

Then, forgetting his work, his cap went on,

 And he was off to the garden swing,

And left her wood and water to bring.

"I love you, mother," said rosy Nell;

"I love you better than tongue can tell."

Then she teased and pouted full half the day,

Till her mother rejoiced when she went to play.

"I love you, mother," said little Fan;

"Today I'll help you all I can;

How glad I am that school doesn't keep!"

So she rocked the baby till it fell asleep.

Then stepping softly she fetched the broom,

 And swept the floor and tidied the room;

 Busy and happy all day was she,

Helpful and happy as child could be.

"I love you, mother," again they said­

Three little children going to bed.

How do you think that mother guessed

 Which of them really loved her best?