Our favourite Mother’s Day poems (2024)

Mothering Sunday

George Hare Leonard

It is the day of all the year,

Of all the year the one day,

When I shall see my Mother dear

And bring her cheer,

A-Mothering on Sunday.

And now to fetch my wheaten cake,

To fetch it from the baker,

He promised me, for Mother’s sake,

The best he’s bake

For me to fetch and take her.

Well have I known, as I went by

One hollow lane, that none day

I’d fail to find - for all they’re shy -

Where violets lie,

As I went home on Sunday.

My sister Jane is waiting-maid

Along with Squire’s lady;

And year by year her part she’s played,

And home she stayed

To get the dinner ready.

For Mother’ll come to Church, you’ll see -

Of all the year it’s the day -

‘The one,’ she’ll say, ‘that’s made for me.’

And so it be:

It’s every Mother’s free day.

The boys will all come home from town,

Not one will miss that one day;

And every maid will bustle down

To show her gown,

A-Mothering Sunday.

It is the day of all the year,

Of all the year the one day;

And here come I, my Mother dear,

And bring you cheer,

A-Mothering on Sunday.

FromA Poem For Every Day Of The Year

Mother O’ Mine

Rudyard Kipling

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!

To My Mother

Robert Louis Stevenson

You too, my mother, read my rhymes

For love of unforgotten times,

And you may chance to hear once more

The little feet along the floor.

Sonnets Are Full of Love

Christina Rossetti

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome

Has many sonnets: so here now shall be

One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me

To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home,

To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee

I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;

Whose service is my special dignity,

And she my loadstare while I go and come

And so because you love me, and because

I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath

Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honoured name:

In you not fourscore years can dim the flame

Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws

Of time and change and mortal life and death.

Rock Me To Sleep

Elizabeth Chase Akers Allen

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long

Since I last listened your lullaby song:

Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem

Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.

To My Mother

Edgar Allan Poe

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,

The angels, whispering to one another,

Can find, among their burning terms of love,

None so devotional as that of “Mother,”

Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—

You who are more than mother unto me,

And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you

In setting my Virginia's spirit free.

My mother—my own mother, who died early,

Was but the mother of myself; but you

Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,

And thus are dearer than the mother I knew

By that infinity with which my wife

Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.