Art is the child of Nature; yes, her darling child, in whom we trace the features of the mother's face, read more

Art is the child of Nature; yes, her darling child, in whom we trace the features of the mother's face, her aspect and her attitude.

We know that birth takes a woman from one place in her life to another. The birth of a child read more

We know that birth takes a woman from one place in her life to another. The birth of a child certainly does change her viewpoint of herself and I believe her viewpoint of the world.

At the cross, her station keeping,
Stood the mournful mother, weeping,
Where He hung, the dying Lord.
read more

At the cross, her station keeping,
Stood the mournful mother, weeping,
Where He hung, the dying Lord.
[Lat., Stabat mater, dolorosa
Juxta crucem lacrymosa
Que pendebat Filius.]

That it should come to this,
But two months dead, nay, not so much, not two,
So read more

That it should come to this,
But two months dead, nay, not so much, not two,
So excellent a king, that was to this
Hyperion to a satyr, so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth,
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on, and yet within a month--
Let me not think on't; frailty, thy name is woman--
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she followed my poor father's body
Like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she--
O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourned longer--married with my uncle,
My father's brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules.

[Milton] calls the university "A stony-hearted step-mother."

[Milton] calls the university "A stony-hearted step-mother."

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No
man does. That is his.

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No
man does. That is his.

A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.

A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.

Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all read more

Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall,
He shall not blind his soul with clay.

If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know read more

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!