happy mothers’ day to all good mums, stepmums, foster mums, aunts, mentors and role models. I hope you all had a super lovely day! 💗
This mothers’ day, I chose a poem from the classics, written by Ann Taylor (1783 –1866) an English poet and literary critic. Ann was part of a successful literary family. Her younger sister Jane Taylor (1783-1824) is best-remembered for having written the words to the uber-famous ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’, but apparently this poem, written by Ann, is also well-known. Evidently it has been much imitated and parodied. Who knew?
This poem, titled My Mother (I’ve included most of the verses) is old fashioned and out-dated and Victorian but you can't deny its sentimentality and its enduring theme of a mother’s love for her children.
'My Mother' is a reminder of how precarious life has been for much of human history. Its second stanza - ‘When pain and sickness made me cry / Who gazed upon my heavy eye / And wept for fear that I should die?’ highlights the reality of infant mortality, with many children not surviving past their first couple of years of life.
Being a mother is never an easy business. I wonder, is it any easier now?
my mother
Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush’d 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 hushaby,
And rock’d 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.
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.
Who dress’d my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play.
And minded all I had to say?
My Mother.
And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me?
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.
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.
For could our Father in the skies
Look down with pleased or loving eyes,
If ever I could dare despise
My Mother.
