TO MY MOTHER
A MOTHER heard our infant cries,
And folded us with fond embrace,
And when we woke, our infant eyes
Were opened on a mother's face.
Our wishes she did make her own.
Her bosom fed and pillowed too.
Answering each start or fitful moan
With trembling pulses fond and true.
Then knowledge was a thing untaught:
Heaven's charity, a daily dole.
Stole in inaudibly, and wrought
Its gentle bonds about the soul.
And folded us with fond embrace,
And when we woke, our infant eyes
Were opened on a mother's face.
Our wishes she did make her own.
Her bosom fed and pillowed too.
Answering each start or fitful moan
With trembling pulses fond and true.
Then knowledge was a thing untaught:
Heaven's charity, a daily dole.
Stole in inaudibly, and wrought
Its gentle bonds about the soul.
by Charles Tennyson Turner
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