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Harvest Festivals Net
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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