Funeral poems for a mother

Remember me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you plann’d:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.

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, O mother o’ mine!

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 hushaby,And rocked me that I should not cry?My mother.Who sat and watched my infant headWhen sleeping on my cradle bed,And tears of sweet affection shed?My mother.

Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky;Hundreds of shells on the shore together;Hundreds of birds that go singing by;Hundreds of bees in the sunny weather.Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn;Hundreds of lambs in the purple clover;Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn;But only one mother the wide world over.

When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tomeHas many sonnets: so here now shall beOne sonnet more, a love sonnet, from meTo her whose heart is my heart's quiet home,To my first Love, my Mother, on whose kneeI 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 becauseI love you, Mother, I have woven a wreathOf rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:In you not fourscore years can dim the flameOf love, whose blessed glow transcends the lawsOf time and change and mortal life and death.

You too, my mother, read my rhymesFor love of unforgotten times,And you may chance to hear once moreThe little feet along the floor.

Oh, there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity; and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him.

For when you looked into my mother’s eyes you knew, as if He had told you, why God sent her into the world—it was to open the minds of all who looked to beautiful thoughts. And that is the beginning and end of literature.

Those innumerable talks with her made her youth as vivid to me as my own, and so much more quaint, for, to a child, the oddest of things, and the most richly coloured picture-book, is that his mother was once a child also, and the contrast between what she is and what she was is perhaps the source of all humour.

But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don’t mind whispering to Marmee that I’d like to try all kinds.

Thou art thy mother’s glass and she in theeCalls back the lovely April of her prime;So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.

Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory;Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heap’d for the belovèd’s bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.

The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth, —The sweeping up the heart,And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity.

No longer mourn for me when I am deadThan you shall hear the surly sullen bellGive warning to the world that I am fledFrom this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:Nay, if you read this line, remember notThe hand that writ it, for I love you so,That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,If thinking on me then should make you woe.O if, I say, you look upon this verse,When I perhaps compounded am with clay,Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;But let your love even with my life decay;Lest the wise world should look into your moan,And mock you with me after I am gone.

Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.