<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374660" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Son,&quot; said my mother,<br>When I was knee-high,<br>&quot;you've need of clothes to cover you,<br>and not a rag have I.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;There's nothing in the house<br>To make a boy breeches,<br>Nor shears to cut a cloth with,<br>Nor thread to take stitches.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;There's nothing in the house<br>But a loaf-end of rye,<br>And a harp with a woman's head<br>Nobody will buy,&quot;<br>And she began to cry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That was in the early fall.<br>When came the late fall,<br>&quot;Son,&quot; she said, &quot;the sight of you<br>Makes your mother's blood crawl,&mdash;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Little skinny shoulder-blades<br>Sticking through your clothes!<br>And where you'll get a jacket from<br>God above knows.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;It's lucky for me, lad,<br>Your daddy's in the ground,<br>And can't see the way I let<br>His son go around!&quot;<br>And she made a queer sound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That was in the late fall.<br>When the winter came,<br>I'd not a pair of breeches<br>Nor a shirt to my name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I couldn't go to school,<br>Or out of doors to play.<br>And all the other little boys<br>Passed our way.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Son,&quot; said my mother,<br>&quot;Come, climb into my lap,<br>And I'll chafe your little bones<br>While you take a nap.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And, oh, but we were silly<br>For half and hour or more,<br>Me with my long legs,<br>Dragging on the floor,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A-rock-rock-rocking<br>To a mother-goose rhyme!<br>Oh, but we were happy<br>For half an hour's time!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But there was I, a great boy,<br>And what would folks say<br>To hear my mother singing me<br>To sleep all day,<br>In such a daft way?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Men say the winter<br>Was bad that year;<br>Fuel was scarce,<br>And food was dear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A wind with a wolf's head<br>Howled about our door,<br>And we burned up the chairs<br>And sat upon the floor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All that was left us<br>Was a chair we couldn't break,<br>And the harp with a woman's head<br>Nobody would take,<br>For song or pity's sake.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The night before Christmas<br>I cried with cold,<br>I cried myself to sleep <br>Like a two-year old.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And in the deep night<br>I felt my mother rise,<br>And stare down upon me<br>With love in her eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I saw my mother sitting<br>On the one good chair,<br>A light falling on her<br>From I couldn't tell where.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Looking nineteen,<br>And not a day older,<br>And the harp with a woman's head<br>Leaned against her shoulder.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her thin fingers, moving<br>In the thin, tall strings,<br>Were weav-weav-weaving<br>Wonderful things.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Many bright threads,<br>From where I couldn't see,<br>Were running through the harp-strings<br>Rapidly,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And gold threads whistling<br>Through my mother's hand.<br>I saw the web grow,<br>And the pattern expand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She wove a child's jacket,<br>And when it was done<br>She laid it on the floor<br>And wove another one.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She wove a red cloak<br>So regal to see,<br>&quot;She's made it for a king's son,&quot;<br>I said, &quot;and not for me.&quot;<br>But I knew it was for me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She wove a pair of breeches<br>Quicker than that!<br>She wove a pair of boots<br>And a little cocked hat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She wove a pair of mittens,<br>Shw wove a little blouse,<br>She wove all night<br>In the still, cold house.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She sang as she worked,<br>And the harp-strings spoke;<br>Her voice never faltered,<br>And the thread never broke,<br>And when I awoke,&mdash;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There sat my mother<br>With the harp against her shoulder,<br>Looking nineteeen,<br>And not a day older, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A smile about her lips,<br>And a light about her head,<br>And her hands in the harp-strings<br>Frozen dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And piled beside her<br>And toppling to the skies,<br>Were the clothes of a king's son,<br>Just my size.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edna+St.+Vincent+Millay">Edna St. Vincent Millay</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374660" data-title="The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver de Edna St. Vincent Millay" data-description="&quot;Son,&quot; said my mother, When I was knee-high, &quot;you've need of clothes to cover you, and not a rag have I. &quot;There's nothing in the house To make a boy breeches, Nor shears to cut a cloth with, Nor thread to take stitches. &quot..."></div> </div> </div>

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