{"id":759,"date":"2012-02-12T14:57:13","date_gmt":"2012-02-12T19:57:13","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/?p=759"},"modified":"2012-02-12T15:02:37","modified_gmt":"2012-02-12T20:02:37","slug":"ballad-of-the-harp-weaver","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/?p=759","title":{"rendered":"Ballad of the Harp-Weaver"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n\n
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The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver<\/strong><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n<\/td>\n\n
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<\/td>\n“Son,” said my mother,
\nWhen I was knee-high,
\n“you’ve need of clothes to cover you,
\nand not a rag have I.”There’s nothing in the house
\nTo make a boy breeches,
\nNor shears to cut a cloth with,
\nNor thread to take stitches.”There’s nothing in the house
\nBut a loaf-end of rye,
\nAnd a harp with a woman’s head
\nNobody will buy,”
\nAnd she began to cry.<\/p>\n

That was in the early fall.
\nWhen came the late fall,
\n“Son,” she said, “the sight of you
\nMakes your mother’s blood crawl,\u2014<\/p>\n

“Little skinny shoulder-blades
\nSticking through your clothes!
\nAnd where you’ll get a jacket from
\nGod above knows.<\/p>\n

“It’s lucky for me, lad,
\nYour daddy’s in the ground,
\nAnd can’t see the way I let
\nHis son go around!”
\nAnd she made a queer sound.<\/p>\n

That was in the late fall.
\nWhen the winter came,
\nI’d not a pair of breeches
\nNor a shirt to my name.<\/p>\n

I couldn’t go to school,
\nOr out of doors to play.
\nAnd all the other little boys
\nPassed our way.<\/p>\n

“Son,” said my mother,
\n“Come, climb into my lap,
\nAnd I’ll chafe your little bones
\nWhile you take a nap.”<\/p>\n

And, oh, but we were silly
\nFor half and hour or more,
\nMe with my long legs,
\nDragging on the floor,<\/p>\n

A-rock-rock-rocking
\nTo a mother-goose rhyme!
\nOh, but we were happy
\nFor half an hour’s time!<\/p>\n

But there was I, a great boy,
\nAnd what would folks say
\nTo hear my mother singing me
\nTo sleep all day,
\nIn such a daft way?<\/p>\n

Men say the winter
\nWas bad that year;
\nFuel was scarce,
\nAnd food was dear.<\/p>\n

A wind with a wolf’s head
\nHowled about our door,
\nAnd we burned up the chairs
\nAnd sat upon the floor.<\/p>\n

All that was left us
\nWas a chair we couldn’t break,
\nAnd the harp with a woman’s head
\nNobody would take,
\nFor song or pity’s sake.<\/p>\n

The night before Christmas
\nI cried with cold,
\nI cried myself to sleep
\nLike a two-year old.<\/p>\n

And in the deep night
\nI felt my mother rise,
\nAnd stare down upon me
\nWith love in her eyes.<\/p>\n

I saw my mother sitting
\nOn the one good chair,
\nA light falling on her
\nFrom I couldn’t tell where.<\/p>\n

Looking nineteen,
\nAnd not a day older,
\nAnd the harp with a woman’s head
\nLeaned against her shoulder.<\/p>\n

Her thin fingers, moving
\nIn the thin, tall strings,
\nWere weav-weav-weaving
\nWonderful things.<\/p>\n

Many bright threads,
\nFrom where I couldn’t see,
\nWere running through the harp-strings
\nRapidly,<\/p>\n

And gold threads whistling
\nThrough my mother’s hand.
\nI saw the web grow,
\nAnd the pattern expand.<\/p>\n

She wove a child’s jacket,
\nAnd when it was done
\nShe laid it on the floor
\nAnd wove another one.<\/p>\n

She wove a red cloak
\nSo regal to see,
\n“She’s made it for a king’s son,”
\nI said, “and not for me.”
\nBut I knew it was for me.<\/p>\n

She wove a pair of breeches
\nQuicker than that!
\nShe wove a pair of boots
\nAnd a little cocked hat.<\/p>\n

She wove a pair of mittens,
\nShw wove a little blouse,
\nShe wove all night
\nIn the still, cold house.<\/p>\n

She sang as she worked,
\nAnd the harp-strings spoke;
\nHer voice never faltered,
\nAnd the thread never broke,
\nAnd when I awoke,\u2014<\/p>\n

There sat my mother
\nWith the harp against her shoulder,
\nLooking nineteeen,
\nAnd not a day older,<\/p>\n

A smile about her lips,
\nAnd a light about her head,
\nAnd her hands in the harp-strings
\nFrozen dead.<\/p>\n

And piled beside her
\nAnd toppling to the skies,
\nWere the clothes of a king’s son,
\nJust my size.<\/p>\n

Edna St. Vincent Millay<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n
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The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 “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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[18,9],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/759"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=759"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/759\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":769,"href":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/759\/revisions\/769"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=759"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=759"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.aprilponders.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=759"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}