Beautiful mother is busy all day, So busy she neither can sing nor say; But lovely thoughts, in a ceaseless flow, Through her eyes, and her ears, and her bosom go-- Motion, sight, and sound, and scent,...
"Give me a son, grant me an heir!" The fairies granted her the prayer. And to the partial parent's eyes Was never child so fair and wise; Waked to the morning's pleasing joy,...
Evening comes to the Tatar village; the magic bright moon is in the sky Under its light all seems silver: houses, roofs, fields nearby Very silent. Working people fell asleep because they’re tired...
Through the vigils deep of the sable night A mother sits in grief alone, For her sons have gone to the battle front And left on the hearth a crushing stone. Beyond the stars that burn at night...
To have a good birthday for a grown-up person is very difficult indeed; We don't give it up, for Mother says the harder things are, the harder you must try till you succeed....
Mothers of men--the words are good indeed in the saying, Pride in the very sound of them, strength in the sense of them, then Why is it their faces haunt me, wistful faces as praying...
Oft within our little cottage, As the shadows gently fall, While the sunlight touches softly One sweet face upon the wall, Do we gather close together, And in hushed and tender tone...
Since Fancy taught me in her school of spells I know her tricks--These are not moths at all, Nor fireflies; but masking Elfland belles Whose link-boys torch them to Titania's ball.
Worthless, the man who works - he knows not why, Whom naught inspires to his puny plan, Who seeming plays his part instinctively: Soulless, and falsely designated "man." ...
IF to a girl who loves us truly Her mother gives instruction duly In virtue, duty, and what not, And if she hearkens ne'er a jot, But with fresh-strengthen'd longing flies ...
I said that I would see Her once, to curse her fair, deceitful grace, To curse her for my life-long agony; But when I saw her face, I said, "Sweet Christ, forgive both her and me." ...
Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee; And thou, poor Innocency; And love - a Lad with broken wing; And Pity, too: The Fool shall sing to you, As Fools will sing.
My bonnie flower, with truest joy Thy welcome face I see, The world grows brighter to my eyes, And summer comes with thee. My solitude now finds a friend, And after each hard day,...
Rifted mountains, clad with forests, girded round by gleaming pines, Where the morning, like an angel, robed in golden splendour shines; Shimmering mountains, throwing downward on the slopes a mazy glare...