The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver

“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.