Saturday, May 7, 2011

A Poem For Mother's Day

Tomorrow will be Mother's Day. I really don't have any special nor specific plan to do by tomorrow except I'll tag mom along for some weekend afternoon activity like how it's been the past months, grab a copy of OK! Philippines' May issue (another item I'll have for safe keeping) and read and learn Old English (read: British English that is) to prepare for some UK peeps visiting the office this week.

But in between those little items on my to do list, let me share with you a wonderful poem dedicated for mothers. I don't remember when I first encountered this poem but this piece Somebody's Mother by Mary Dow Brine sure makes me shed a tear just by painting images in my mind and reading the lines of this poem.

The woman was old and ragged and gray
And bent with the chill of the winter's day.
The street was wet with the recent snow,
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout.
Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way,
Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop,
The gayest laddie of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low,
"I'll help you across if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided her trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow;

"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,
If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was, "God be kind to the noble boy
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy."

There are thoughts at the back of my head that I find it hard to verbally explain when I read this poem; probably me trying to figure out how things will be once my parents are older. I might be unable to know the answer. But as to that poem, if ever I do get to have kids of my own, I'll have to teach them this wonderful piece.

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