My mom called me last Mother’s Day and said she didn’t want anything; she just wanted me to call and tell her I was doing okay. So I called, and we talked for an hour about nothing important: the weather, what I’d made for dinner that week, and whether the boys were sleeping through the night yet. At the end of the call, she said, “This is the best Mother’s Day gift. Just knowing you’re alright.” I thought about that conversation for days afterward. The best gift wasn’t something I bought or made. It was just connection, just showing up in the way she needed. These classic poems about mothers capture that same truth: what mothers give us, what they mean to us, and how their love shapes who we become. They’re poems from great writers who understood that mother love is worth preserving in verse.
“The Angel that presided o’er my birth” by William Blake
The Angel that presided o’er my birth
Said, ‘Little creature, form’d of Joy and Mirth,
‘Go love without the help of any Thing on Earth.’
“A Thank You Note” by Lang Leav
You have told me
All the things
I need to hear
Before I knew
I needed to hear them
To be unafraid
Of all the things
I used to fear,
Before I knew
I shouldn’t fear them.
“A Wonderful Mother” by Pat O’Reilly
God made a wonderful mother,
A mother who never grows old;
He made her smile of the sunshine,
And He molded her heart of pure gold;
In her eyes He placed bright shining stars,
In her cheeks, fair roses you see;
God made a wonderful mother,
And He gave that dear mother to me.
“If There Are Any Heavens” by e.e. cummings
If there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have
One. It will not be a pansy heaven nor,
A fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but,
It will be a heaven of blackred roses.
“I Will Have to Wait Until I’m a Mother” by Rupi Kaur
I struggle so deeply,
to understand,
how someone can,
pour their entire soul,
blood and energy,
into someone,
without wanting,
anything in,
return.
“Being a Mother” by George Bernard Shaw
Being a mother means that your heart
Is no longer yours; it wanders
Wherever your children do.
“M-O-T-H-E-R” by Howard Johnson
An acrostic poem spelling out the qualities that make mothers special.
‘M’ is for the million things she gave me,
‘O’ means only that she’s growing old,
‘T’ is for the tears she shed to save me,
‘H’ is for her heart of purest gold;
‘E’ is for her eyes, with love-light shining,
‘R’ means right, and right she’ll always be,
Put them all together, they spell ‘MOTHER,’
A word that means the world to me.
“Mother o’ Mine” by Rudyard Kipling
If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
“To My Mother” by Edgar Allan Poe
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of “Mother,”
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia’s spirit free.
My mother—my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
You may also like: 150 Happy Mother’s Day Wishes and Messages to Honor Mom
“Rock Me to Sleep” by Elizabeth Akers Allen
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;
Rock me to sleep, mother – rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!
Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead tonight,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!
“My Mother” by Ann Taylor
Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.
Who taught my infant lips to pray
And love God’s holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way?
My Mother.
And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who wast so very kind to me,
My Mother?
Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare
I hope I shall reward they care,
My Mother.
When thou art feeble, old and grey,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My Mother.
“To My Mother” by Lucretia Maria Davidson
O thou whose care sustained my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope’s brightest garland wove;
To thee my lay is due, the simple song,
Which Nature gave me at life’s opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.
O say, amid this wilderness of life,
What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me?
Who would have smiled responsive? —who in grief,
Would e’er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee?
Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye,
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart, with love’s bright tear?
Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip,
In all the agony of love and woe?
None but a mother — none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch;
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,
Whose form has felt disease’s mildew touch.
Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o’er every grief,
That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.
O then, to thee, this rude and simple song,
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.
“Mother’s Love” by Helen Steiner Rice
A Mother’s love is something
that no on can explain,
It is made of deep devotion
and of sacrifice and pain,
It is endless and unselfish
and enduring come what may
For nothing can destroy it
or take that love away . . .
It is patient and forgiving
when all others are forsaking,
And it never fails or falters
even though the heart is breaking . . .
It believes beyond believing
when the world around condemns,
And it glows with all the beauty
of the rarest, brightest gems . . .
It is far beyond defining,
it defies all explanation,
And it still remains a secret
like the mysteries of creation . . .
A many splendoured miracle
man cannot understand
And another wondrous evidence
of God’s tender guiding hand.
“The Reading Mother” by Strickland Gillilan
I had a mother who read to me
Sagas of pirates who scoured the sea,
Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth,
“Blackbirds” stowed in the hold beneath.
I had a Mother who read me lays
Of ancient and gallant and golden days;
Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe,
Which every boy has a right to know.
I had a Mother who read me tales
Of Gelert the hound of the hills of Wales,
True to his trust till his tragic death,
Faithfulness blent with his final breath.
I had a Mother who read me the things
That wholesome life to the boy heart brings
Stories that stir with an upward touch,
Oh, that each mother of boys were such!
You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be
I had a Mother who read to me.
Final Thoughts
After reading through these poems, I’m struck by how consistent the themes are across different time periods and different poets. Whether it’s Langston Hughes, Edgar Allan Poe, or Ann Taylor, they all understand the same fundamental truths about mothers: their love is unconditional, their sacrifices are countless, and their influence shapes us forever.
What’s interesting about classic poetry is that these poems have survived because they captured something universal and true. They weren’t just nice verses for their time. They spoke to something timeless about the mother-child relationship, and that’s why we still read them today.
Some of these poems are celebratory, praising mothers for their strength and love. Others are bittersweet, acknowledging loss or longing for childhood. Some focus on the daily acts of care that mothers perform. Others take a broader view of how mothers shape society through raising children. All of them, in their own way, honor what mothers give.
If you’re looking for a Mother’s Day poem to share with your mom, consider what resonates with your relationship. Does she appreciate formal, traditional language? Go with Poe or Wordsworth. Does she prefer straightforward sentiment? Ann Taylor or “A Wonderful Mother” might work better. Is your relationship complicated or have you lost your mother? “Rock Me to Sleep” or poems about longing might capture what you feel.
You can find the full text of most of these poems with a simple internet search. Many are short enough to write in a card by hand. Some work better read aloud. A few are long enough that you might want to print them out and frame them.
These classic poems are freely available for you to use however you want: copy them into a card, print them for a gift, read them at a Mother’s Day gathering, or just read them privately to remind yourself of what your mother means to you. These poets gave their words to the world, and now they’re yours to share.
My mom wouldn’t care if I sent her a poem or not. She’d probably laugh and say I didn’t need to be so fancy. But she’d also keep it, because that’s what moms do. They keep the handmade cards and the attempts at poetry and the little gestures that show you were thinking of them. They keep them because they understand what we sometimes forget: it’s not about the perfection of the gift, it’s about the love behind it.
So whether you choose one of these classic poems or write your own awkward verses or just call and talk about the weather, what matters is showing up for your mom in the way she needs. For my mom, that’s a phone call. For yours, it might be a poem. Either way, she’ll know you love her.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there. Thank you for everything you do, everything you’ve done, and everything you’ll continue to do. The poets got it right: your love really is like a circle, with no beginning and no end.
