Quotes
Quotes about Mother
Praise enough
To fill the ambition of a private man,
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue.
But strive still to be a man before your mother.
The common growth of Mother Earth
Suffices me,--her tears, her mirth,
Her humblest mirth and tears.
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave.
A mother's pride, a father's joy.
I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.
A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.
Oh, when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My mother.
There were his young barbarians all at play;
There was their Dacian mother: he, their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday!
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath!
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke!
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm!
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet song, and dance, and wine!
And thou art terrible!--the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know or dream or fear
Of agony are thine.
The cold winds swept the mountain-height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night
A mother wandered with her child:
As through the drifting snows she press'd,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.
A baby was sleeping,
Its mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild-raging sea.
O men with sisters dear,
O men with mothers and wives,
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
I should as soon think of swimming across Charles River when I wish to go to Boston, as of reading all my books in originals when I have them rendered for me in my mother tongue.
The author who speaks about his own books is almost as bad as a mother who talks about her own children.
Variety is the mother of Enjoyment.
Debt is the prolific mother of folly and of crime.
The Night is Mother of the Day,
The Winter of the Spring,
And ever upon old Decay
The greenest mosses cling.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad New Year,--
Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be queen o' the May.
Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall,
He shall not blind his soul with clay.
No sound is breathed so potent to coerce
And to conciliate, as their names who dare
For that sweet mother-land which gave them birth
Nobly to do, nobly to die.
Maids must be wives and mothers to fulfil
The entire and holiest end of woman's being.
"O mother, mother, mak' my bed
To lay me down in sorrow.
My love has died for me to-day,
I 'll die for him to-morrow."
? John Bartlett, comp"My mother says I must not pass
Too near that glass;
She is afraid that I will see
A little witch that looks like me,
With a red mouth to whisper low
The very thing I should not know."
