The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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"SON," said my mother,
      When I was knee-high,
"You've need of clothes to cover you,
      And not a rag have I.

"There's nothing in the house
      To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with
      Nor thread to take stitches.

"There's nothing in the house
      But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman's head
      Nobody will buy,"
      And she began to cry.

That was in the early fall.
      When came the late fall,
"Son," she said, "the sight of you
      Makes your mother's blood crawl,­

"Little skinny shoulder-blades
      Sticking through your clothes!
And where you'll get a jacket from
      God above knows.

"It's lucky for me, lad,
      Your daddy's in the ground,
And can't see the way I let
      His son go around!"
      And she made a queer sound.

That was in the late fall.
      When the winter came,
I'd not a pair of breeches
      Nor a shirt to my name.

I couldn't go to school,
      Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
      Passed our way.

"Son," said my mother,
      "Come, climb into my lap,
And I'll chafe your little bones
      While you take a nap."

And, oh, but we were silly
      For half an hour or more,
Me with my long legs
      Dragging on the floor,

A-rock-rock-rocking
      To a mother-goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
      For half an hour's time!

But there was I, a great boy,
      And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
      To sleep all day,
      In such a daft way?

Men say the winter
      Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
      And food was dear.

A wind with a wolf's head
      Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
      And sat upon the floor.

All that was left us
      Was a chair we couldn't break,
And the harp with a woman's head
      Nobody would take,
      For song or pity's sake.

The night before Christmas
      I cried with the cold,
I cried myself to sleep
      Like a two-year-old.

And in the deep night
      I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
      With love in her eyes.

I saw my mother sitting
      On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
      From I couldn't tell where,

Looking nineteen,
      And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman's head
      Leaned against her shoulder.

Her thin fingers, moving
      In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
      Wonderful things.

Many bright threads,
      From where I couldn't see,
Were running through the harp-strings
      Rapidly,

And gold threads whistling
      Through my mother's hand.
I saw the web grow,
      And the pattern expand.

She wove a child's jacket,
      And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
      And wove another one.

She wove a red cloak
      So regal to see,
"She's made it for a king's son,"
      I said, "and not for me."
      But I knew it was for me.

She wove a pair of breeches
      Quicker than that!
She wove a pair of boots
      And a little cocked hat.

She wove a pair of mittens,
      She wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
      In the still, cold house.

She sang as she worked,
      And the harp-strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
      And the thread never broke.
      And when I awoke,­

There sat my mother
      With the harp against her shoulder
Looking nineteen
      And not a day older,

A smile about her lips,
      And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp-strings
      Frozen dead.

And piled up beside her
      And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king's son,
      Just my size.