Saturday, May 10, 2014

Inspirational Reflections, Quotes & Poems On Mother

Music:
André Rieu-When Winter Comes


Dedicated to my mother & to all Mothers of the world.


Your mother is always with you. She’s the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street. She’s the smell of certain foods you remember,flowers you pick ,the fragrance of life itself.She’s the cool hand on your brow when you’re not feeling well.She’s your breath in the air on a cold winter’s day.

She is the sound of the rain that lulls you to sleep,the colors of the rainbow; she is Christmas morning.Your mother lives inside your laughter. She’s the place you came from,your first home,and she’s the map you follow with every step you take.She’s your first love,your first friend,even your first enemy, but nothing on earth can separate you,not time, not space…..not even death.
Unknown


Mother
khalil Gibran

Oh, my beloved mother! Oh, mother!

The most beautiful word on the lips of mankind is the word "Mother," and the most beautiful call is the call of "My mother." it is a word full of hope and love,a sweet and kind word coming from the depths of the heart.


The mother is every thing—she is our consolation in sorrow, our hope in misery, and our strength in weakness. She is the source of love,mercy,sympathy, and forgiveness. He who loses his mother loses a pure soul who blesses and guards him constantly.

Every thing in nature bespeaks the mother.The sun is the mother of earth and gives it its nourishment of hear;it never leaves the universe at night until it has put the earth to sleep to the song of the sea and the hymn of birds and brooks.

And this earth is the mother of trees and flowers.It produces them,nurses them, and weans them. The trees and flowers become kind mothers of their great fruits and seeds.And the mother, the prototype of all existence,is the eternal spirit,full of beauty and love.


"Oh, mother!" The word mother is hidden in our hearts, and it comes upon our lips in hours of sorrow and happiness as the perfume comes from the heart of the rose and mingles with clear and cloudy air.



Monologue of a Mother
D.H.Lawrence

This is the last of all,this is the last!
I must hold my hands,and turn my face to the fire,
I must watch my dead days fusing together in dross,
Shape after shape,and scene after scene from my past
Fusing to one dead mass in the sinking fire
Where the ash on the dying coals grows swiftly,like heavy moss.


Strange he is, my son, whom I have awaited like a loyer,
Strange to me like a captive in a foreign country, haunting
The confines and gazing out on the land where the wind is free;
White and gaunt, with wistful eyes that hover
Always on the distance, as if his soul were chaunting
The monotonous weird of departure away from me.


Like a strange white bird blown out of the frozen seas,
Like a bird from the far north blown with a broken wing
Into our sooty garden, he drags and beats
From place to place perpetually, seeking release
From me, from the hand of my love which creeps up, needing
His happiness, whilst he in displeasure retreats.


I must look away from him, for my faded eyes
Like a cringing dog at his heels offend him now,
Like a toothless hound pursuing him with my will,
Till he chafes at my crouching persistence, and a sharp spark flies
In my soul from under the sudden frown of his brow,
As he blenches and turns away, and my heart stands still.


This is the last, it will not be any more.
All my life I have borne the burden of myself,
All the long years of sitting in my husband’s house,
Never have I said to myself as he closed the door:
‘Now I am caught! – You are hopelessly lost, O Self,
You are frightened with joy, my heart, like a frightened mouse.’


Three times have I offered myself,three times rejected.
It will not be any more.No more,my son,my son!
Never to know the glad freedom of obedience,since long ago
The angel of childhood kissed me and went.I expected
Another would take me, – and now, my son, O my son,
I must sit awhile and wait,and never know
The loss of myself,till death comes,who cannot fail.


Death, in whose service is nothing of gladness,takes me:
For the lips and the eyes of God are behind a veil.
And the thought of the lipless voice of the Father shakes me
With fear, and fills my eyes with the tears of desire,
And my heart rebels with anguish as night draws nigher.

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