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Poems and Lyrics

To My Mother

    They tell us of an Indian tree
      Which howsoe'er the sun and sky
    May tempt its boughsd to wander free,
      And shoot and blossom, wide and high,
    Far better loves to bend its arms
      Downward again to that dear earth
    From which the life that fills and warms
      Its grateful being, first had birth,
    'Tis thus, though wooed by flattering friends,
      And fed with fame (if fame it may be),
    This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
      With love's true instinct, back to thee!

    - Thomas Moore

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