The Poetry Corner

To My Mother.

By Thomas Moore

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822. They tell us of an Indian tree, Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs 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, tho' wooed by flattering friends, And fed with fame (if fame it be) This heart, my own dear mother, bends, With love's true instinct, back to thee!