To My Mother

 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.

by Charles Tennyson Turner