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

To make a boy breeches,

Nor shears to cut a cloth with,

Nor thread to take stitches.“There’s nothing in the

But a loaf-end of rye,

And a harp with a woman’s

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

Makes your mother’s blood crawl,—“Little skinny shoulder

Sticking through your clothes!

And where you’ll get a jacket

God above knows.“It’s lucky for me, lad,

Your daddy’s in the ground,

And can’t see the way I

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

Nor a shirt to my name.

I couldn’t go to school,

Or out of doors to play.

And all the other little

Passed our way.“Son,” said my mother,“Come, climb into my lap,

And I’ll chafe your little

While you take a nap.”And, oh, but we were

For half an hour or more,

Me with my long

Dragging on the floor,

To a Mother Goose rhyme!

Oh, but we were

For half an hour’s time!

But there was I, a great boy,

And what would folks

To hear my mother singing

To sleep all day,

In such a daft way?

Men say the

Was bad that year;

Fuel was scarce,

And food was dear.

A wind with a wolf’s

Howled about our door,

And we burned up the

And sat upon the floor.

All that was left

Was a chair we couldn’t break,

And the harp with a woman’s

Nobody would take,

For song or pity’s sake.

The night before ChristmasI cried with the cold,

I cried myself to

Like a two-year-old.

And in the deep nightI felt my mother rise,

And stare down upon

With love in her eyes.

I saw my mother

On the one good chair,

A light falling on

From I couldn’t tell where,

Looking nineteen,

And not a day older,

And the harp with a woman’s

Leaned against her shoulder.

Her thin fingers,

In the thin, tall strings,

Were

Wonderful things.

Many bright threads,

From where I couldn’t see,

Were running through the harp

Rapidly,

And gold threads

Through my mother’s hand.

I saw the web grow,

And the pattern expand.

She wove a child’s jacket,

And when it was

She laid it on the

And wove another one.

She wove a red

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

Quicker than that!

She wove a pair of

And a little cocked hat.

She wove a pair of mittens,

She wove a little blouse,

She wove all

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

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

Frozen dead.

And piled up beside

And toppling to the skies,

Were the clothes of a king’s son,

Just my size.