Sonnet 300

Let not the arms of mother’s love despair
For love bestowed does not presume a way
And laboring so in sweet eternal care,
She does with means and ways fond hope convey;
The wisest son does make his father proud,
The fool oft to his mother’s breast does cling,
Yet fosters both may don the mourner’s shroud
When sorrow to glad heart’s flawed breed does bring.
Still of this failure who should bear the scorn,
Of baird whose actions stain their pedigree
There oft the mother’s heart does heft the more
And mocks her worth and work so woefully;
The warmest sun and too the sweetest rain
Falls soft upon the flower and weed the same.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

 

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