THE BALLAD OF THE HARP-WEAVER
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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 houseTo make a boy breeches,Nor shears to cut a cloth withNor thread to take stitches. “There’s nothing in the houseBut a loaf-end of rye,And a harp with a woman’s headNobody will buy,”And she began to cry. That was in the early fall.When came the late fall,“Son,” she said, “the sight of youMakes your mother’s blood crawl,-- “Little skinny shoulder-bladesSticking through your clothes!And where you’ll get a jacket fromGod above knows. “It’s lucky for me, lad,Your daddy’s in the ground,And can’t see the way I letHis 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 breechesNor a shirt to my name. I couldn’t go to school,Or out of doors to play.And all the other little boysPassed our way. “Son,” said my mother,“Come, climb into my lap,And I’ll chafe your little bonesWhile you take a nap.” And, oh, but we were sillyFor half an hour or more,Me with my long legsDragging on the floor, A-rock-rock-rockingTo a mother-goose rhyme!Oh, but we were happyFor half an hour’s time! But there was I, a great boy,And what would folks sayTo hear my mother singing meTo sleep all day,In such a daft way? Men say the winterWas bad that year;Fuel was scarce,And food was dear. A wind with a wolf’s headHowled about our door,And we burned up the chairsAnd sat upon the floor. All that was left usWas a chair we couldn’t break,And the harp with a woman’s headNobody would take,For song or pity’s sake. The night before ChristmasI cried with the cold,I cried myself to sleepLike a two-year-old. And in the deep nightI felt my mother rise,And stare down upon meWith love in her eyes. I saw my mother sittingOn the one good chair,A light falling on herFrom I couldn’t tell where, Looking nineteen,And not a day older,And the harp with a woman’s headLeaned against her shoulder. Her thin fingers, movingIn the thin, tall strings,Were weav-weav-weavingWonderful things. Many bright threads,From where I couldn’t see,Were running through the harp-stringsRapidly, And gold threads whistlingThrough my mother’s hand.I saw the web grow,And the pattern expand. She wove a child’s jacket,And when it was doneShe laid it on the floorAnd wove another one. She wove a red cloakSo 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 breechesQuicker than that!She wove a pair of bootsAnd a little cocked hat. She wove a pair of mittens,She wove a little blouse,She wove all nightIn 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 motherWith the harp against her shoulder,Looking nineteenAnd not a day older, A smile about her lips,And a light about her head,And her hands in the harp-stringsFrozen dead. And piled up beside herAnd toppling to the skies,Were the clothes of a king’s son,Just my size.
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