Beneath the shade of ancient oaks, she stands,
A beacon of wisdom, with books in her hands,
Guiding young hearts through the labyrinth of lore,
Her voice a melody, forevermore.

Her eyes, a reflection of stories untold,
A treasure trove of memories she holds,
With patience, she molds minds like clay,
Nurturing souls, come what may.

In the quiet of night, by the hearth’s glow,
She whispers tales of lands we long to know,
With every word, she paints a scene,
A magical world, serene and pristine.

English Mother, with your gentle grace,
You light the path for the human race,
In your embrace, we find our place,
A sanctuary of wisdom, a sacred space.