The perfect picture on the earth by Robert Ingersoll

There is no more perfect picture on the earth, or within the imagination of man, than a mother holding in her thrilled and happy arms a child, the fruit of love.
Robert Ingersoll

Inspirational Reflections, Quotes & Poems On Mother

Music:
André Rieu-When Winter Comes

Dedicated to my mother & to all Mothers of the world.

Your mother is always with you. She’s the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street. She’s the smell of certain foods you remember,flowers you pick ,the fragrance of life itself.She’s the cool hand on your brow when you’re not feeling well.She’s your breath in the air on a cold winter’s day.

She is the sound of the rain that lulls you to sleep,the colors of the rainbow; she is Christmas morning.Your mother lives inside your laughter. She’s the place you came from,your first home,and she’s the map you follow with every step you take.She’s your first love,your first friend,even your first enemy, but nothing on earth can separate you,not time, not space…..not even death.
Unknown


Mother
khalil Gibran

Oh, my beloved mother! Oh, mother!

The most beautiful word on the lips of mankind is the word “Mother,” and the most beautiful call is the call of “My mother.” it is a word full of hope and love,a sweet and kind word coming from the depths of the heart.

The mother is every thing—she is our consolation in sorrow, our hope in misery, and our strength in weakness. She is the source of love,mercy,sympathy, and forgiveness. He who loses his mother loses a pure soul who blesses and guards him constantly.

Every thing in nature bespeaks the mother.The sun is the mother of earth and gives it its nourishment of hear;it never leaves the universe at night until it has put the earth to sleep to the song of the sea and the hymn of birds and brooks.

And this earth is the mother of trees and flowers.It produces them,nurses them, and weans them. The trees and flowers become kind mothers of their great fruits and seeds.And the mother, the prototype of all existence,is the eternal spirit,full of beauty and love.

“Oh, mother!” The word mother is hidden in our hearts, and it comes upon our lips in hours of sorrow and happiness as the perfume comes from the heart of the rose and mingles with clear and cloudy air.

Monologue of a Mother
D.H.Lawrence

This is the last of all,this is the last!
I must hold my hands,and turn my face to the fire,
I must watch my dead days fusing together in dross,
Shape after shape,and scene after scene from my past
Fusing to one dead mass in the sinking fire
Where the ash on the dying coals grows swiftly,like heavy moss.

Strange he is, my son, whom I have awaited like a loyer,
Strange to me like a captive in a foreign country, haunting
The confines and gazing out on the land where the wind is free;
White and gaunt, with wistful eyes that hover
Always on the distance, as if his soul were chaunting
The monotonous weird of departure away from me.

Like a strange white bird blown out of the frozen seas,
Like a bird from the far north blown with a broken wing
Into our sooty garden, he drags and beats
From place to place perpetually, seeking release
From me, from the hand of my love which creeps up, needing
His happiness, whilst he in displeasure retreats.

I must look away from him, for my faded eyes
Like a cringing dog at his heels offend him now,
Like a toothless hound pursuing him with my will,
Till he chafes at my crouching persistence, and a sharp spark flies
In my soul from under the sudden frown of his brow,
As he blenches and turns away, and my heart stands still.

This is the last, it will not be any more.
All my life I have borne the burden of myself,
All the long years of sitting in my husband’s house,
Never have I said to myself as he closed the door:
‘Now I am caught! – You are hopelessly lost, O Self,
You are frightened with joy, my heart, like a frightened mouse.’

Three times have I offered myself,three times rejected.
It will not be any more.No more,my son,my son!
Never to know the glad freedom of obedience,since long ago
The angel of childhood kissed me and went.I expected
Another would take me, – and now, my son, O my son,
I must sit awhile and wait,and never know
The loss of myself,till death comes,who cannot fail.

Death, in whose service is nothing of gladness,takes me:
For the lips and the eyes of God are behind a veil.
And the thought of the lipless voice of the Father shakes me
With fear, and fills my eyes with the tears of desire,
And my heart rebels with anguish as night draws nigher.

What Is Our Deepest Desire? by Miriam Pederson

What Is Our Deepest Desire?
Miriam Pederson

To be held this way in our mother’s arms,
to be nestled deep in the warmth
of her body, her gaze,
to be adored, to overwhelm her
with our sweetness.
This is what we seek in chocolate,
in the food and drink and drugs
that stun the senses, that fill the veins
with the rich cream of well being.
What we take for lust —can it be, perhaps,
a heavy pang of longing to be swaddled,
close, close to the heartbeat of our mother?

No bucket seats, Jaccuzi, or even a lover’s embrace
can duplicate this luxuriance,
this centered place on the roiling planet.
When the old woman,small and light,
can be carried in the arms of her son,
he, at first, holds her tentatively,
a foreign doll,
but gradually, as the pool loses its ripples,
he sees his face in hers
and draws her to him,
rocking to the rhythm of her breathing.
This is the way to enter and leave the world.

Orphan’s Heart:Poems:An Orphan’s Lament by Anne Brontë*The Little Orphan by BY EDGAR ALBERT GUEST*The Poor Orphan Child by Charlotte Bronte

Music:
Secret Garden-Sometimes when it rains

An Orphan’s Lament
Anne Brontë

She’s gone — and twice the summer’s sun
Has gilt Regina’s towers,
And melted wild Angora’s snows,
And warmed Exina’s bowers.
The flowerets twice on hill and dale
Have bloomed and died away,
And twice the rustling forest leaves
Have fallen to decay,

And thrice stern winter’s icy hand
Has checked the river’s flow,
And three times o’er the mountains thrown
His spotless robe of snow.

Two summers springs and autumns sad
Three winters cold and grey —
And is it then so long ago
That wild November day!

They say such tears as children weep
Will soon be dried away,
That childish grief however strong
Is only for a day,

And parted friends how dear soe’er
Will soon forgotten be;
It may be so with other hearts,
It is not thus with me.

My mother, thou wilt weep no more
For thou art gone above,
But can I ever cease to mourn
Thy good and fervent love?

While that was mine the world to me
Was sunshine bright and fair;
No feeling rose within my heart
But thou couldst read it there.

And thou couldst feel for all my joys
And all my childish cares
And never weary of my play
Or scorn my foolish fears.

Beneath thy sweet maternal smile
All pain and sorrow fled,
And even the very tears were sweet
Upon thy bosom shed.

I shall not know again
While life remains, the peaceful joy
That filled my spirit then.

Where shall I find a heart like thine
While life remains to me,
And where shall I bestow the love
I ever bore for thee?


Elena shumilova Photography

The Little Orphan
EDGAR ALBERT GUEST

The crowded street his playground is,a patch of blue his sky;
A puddle in a vacant lot his sea where ships pass by:
Poor little orphan boy of five,the city smoke and grime
Taint every cooling breeze he gets throughout the summer time;
And he is just as your boy is,a child who loves to play,
Except that he is drawn and white and cannot get away.

And he would like the open fields,for often in his dreams
The angels kind bear him off to where are pleasant streams,
Where he may sail a splendid boat,sometimes he flies a kite,
Or romps beside a shepherd dog and shouts with all his might;
But when the dawn of morning comes he wakes to find once more
That what he thought were sun-kissed hills are rags upon the floor.

Then through the hot and sultry day he plays at “make-pretend,”
The alley is a sandy beach where all the rich folks send
Their little boys and girls to play,a barrel is his boat,
But,oh,the air is tifling and the dust fills up his throat;
And though he tries so very hard to play,somehow it seems
He never gets such wondrous joys as angels bring in dreams.

Poor little orphan boy of five,except that he is pale,
With sunken cheeks and hollow eyes and very wan and frail,
Just like that little boy of yours,with same desire to play,
Fond of the open fields and skies,he’s built the self-same way;
But kept by fate and circumstance away from shady streams,
His only joy comes when he sleeps and angels bring him dreams.

Magdalena Berney Photography

The Poor Orphan Child
Charlotte Bronte
(From Jane Eyre,chapter three.)

My feet they are sore,and my limbs they are weary;
Long is the way,and the mountains are wild;
Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary
Over the path of the poor orphan child.

Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?
Men are hard-hearted,and kind angels only
Watch o’er the steps of a poor orphan child.

Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,
Clouds there are none,and clear stars beam mild,
God,in His mercy,protection is showing,
Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.

Ev’n should I fall o’er the broken bridge passing,
Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,
Still will my Father,with promise and blessing,
Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.

There is a thought that for strength should avail me,
Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;
Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;
God is a friend to the poor orphan child.’

Motherhood feelings quote by Jodi Picoult

Sometimes when you pick up your child you can feel the map of your own bones beneath your hands, or smell the scent of your skin in the nape of his neck. This is the most extraordinary thing about motherhood – finding a piece of yourself separate and apart that all the same you could not live without.
Jodi Picoult, Perfect Match

Of Love BY ROBERT HERRICK

Of Love
BY ROBERT HERRICK

How Love came in, I do not know,
Whether by th’ eye, or eare, or no:
Or whether with the soule it came
(At first) infused with the same:
Whether in part ‘tis here or there,
Or, like the soule, whole every where:
This troubles me: but as I well
As any other, this can tell;
That when from hence she does depart,
The out-let then is from the heart.

Mother quote by Mitch Albom

Steve Hanks Art

But there’s a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begin.
Mitch Albom, For One More Day

Song by Edith Nesbit

Vicente Romero Redondo Art

Song
Edith Nesbit

Oh, baby, baby, baby dear,
We lie alone together here;
The snowy gown and cap and sheet
With lavender are fresh and sweet;
Through half-closed blinds the roses peer
To see and love you, baby dear.

We are so tired, we like to lie
Just doing nothing, you and I
Within the darkened quiet room.
The sun sends dusk rays through the gloom,
Which is no gloom since you are here,
My little life, my baby dear.

Soft sleepy mouth so vaguely pressed
Against your new-made mother’s breast,
Soft little hands in mine I fold,
Soft little feet I kiss and hold
Round soft smooth head and tiny ear,
All mine, my own, my baby dear.

And he we love is far away!
But he will come some happy day,
You need but me, and I can rest
At peace with you beside me pressed
There are no questions, longings vain,
No murmurings, nor doubt, nor pain,
Only content and we are here,
My baby dear.

Chain Of Pearls by Rabindranath Tagore

Adolphe William Bouguereau painting

Chain Of Pearls
Rabindranath Tagore

Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck
with my tears of sorrow.

The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet,
but mine will hang upon thy breast.

Wealth and fame come from thee
and it is for thee to give or to withhold them.
But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own,
and when I bring it to thee as my offering
thou rewardest me with thy grace.

My Mother by Anne Taylor/Mother’s day poem

My Mother
Anne Taylor

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

Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay,
And fondly taught me 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 to make it well?
My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me?
My Mother.