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SUMMARY:Ballad of the Harp Weaver by Edna St. Vincent Millay publish
	ed in Vanity Fair June 1922
DTSTAMP:20251019T004010Z
SEQUENCE:0
UID:547-7-c3fe8195a3dde498d013e477e2142422@aalbc.com
ORGANIZER;CN="richardmurray":troy@aalbc.com
DESCRIPTION:\n	THE BALLAD OF THE HARP-WEAVER\n\n\n\n	by  Edna St. Vinc
	ent Millay\n\n\n\n	 \n\n\n\n	\"Son\,\" said my mother\,\n\n	When I was kn
	ee-high\,\n\n	\"You've need of clothes to cover you\,\n\n	And not a rag ha
	ve I.\n\n\n\n	\"There's nothing in the house\n\n	To make a boy breeches\,\
	n\n	Nor shears to cut a cloth with\n\n	Nor thread to take stitches.\n\n\n\
	n	\"There's nothing in the house\n\n	But a loaf-end of rye\,\n\n	And a har
	p with a woman's head\n\n	Nobody will buy\,\"\n\n	And she began to cry.\n\
	n\n\n	That was in the early fall.\n\n	When came the late fall\,\n\n	\"Son\
	,\" she said\, \"the sight of you\n\n	Makes your mother's blood crawl\,—
	\n\n\n\n	\"Little skinny shoulder-blades\n\n	Sticking through your clothes
	!\n\n	And where you'll get a jacket from\n\n	God above knows.\n\n\n\n	\"It
	's lucky for me\, lad\,\n\n	Your daddy's in the ground\,\n\n	And can't see
	 the way I let\n\n	His son go around!\"\n\n	And she made a queer sound.\n\
	n\n\n	That was in the late fall.\n\n	When the winter came\,\n\n	I'd not a 
	pair of breeches\n\n	Nor a shirt to my name.\n\n\n\n	I couldn't go to scho
	ol\,\n\n	Or out of doors to play.\n\n	And all the other little boys\n\n	Pa
	ssed our way.\n\n\n\n	\"Son\,\" said my mother\,\n\n	\"Come\, climb into m
	y lap\,\n\n	And I'll chafe your little bones\n\n	While you take a nap.\"\n
	\n\n\n	And\, oh\, but we were silly\n\n	For half an hour or more\,\n\n	Me 
	with my long legs\n\n	Dragging on the floor\,\n\n\n\n	A-rock-rock-rocking\
	n\n	To a mother-goose rhyme!\n\n	Oh\, but we were happy\n\n	For half an ho
	ur's time!\n\n\n\n	But there was I\, a great boy\,\n\n	And what would folk
	s say\n\n	To hear my mother singing me\n\n	To sleep all day\,\n\n	In such 
	a daft way?\n\n\n\n	Men say the winter\n\n	Was bad that year\;\n\n	Fuel wa
	s scarce\,\n\n	And food was dear.\n\n\n\n	A wind with a wolf's head\n\n	Ho
	wled about our door\,\n\n	And we burned up the chairs\n\n	And sat upon the
	 floor.\n\n\n\n	All that was left us\n\n	Was a chair we couldn't break\,\n
	\n	And the harp with a woman's head\n\n	Nobody would take\,\n\n	For song o
	r pity's sake.\n\n\n\n	The night before Christmas\n\n	I cried with the col
	d\,\n\n	I cried myself to sleep\n\n	Like a two-year-old.\n\n\n\n	And in th
	e deep night\n\n	I felt my mother rise\,\n\n	And stare down upon me\n\n	Wi
	th love in her eyes.\n\n\n\n	I saw my mother sitting\n\n	On the one good c
	hair\,\n\n	A light falling on her\n\n	From I couldn't tell where\,\n\n\n\n
		Looking nineteen\,\n\n	And not a day older\,\n\n	And the harp with a woma
	n's head\n\n	Leaned against her shoulder.\n\n\n\n	Her thin fingers\, movin
	g\n\n	In the thin\, tall strings\,\n\n	Were weav-weav-weaving\n\n	Wonderfu
	l things.\n\n\n\n	Many bright threads\,\n\n	From where I couldn't see\,\n\
	n	Were running through the harp-strings\n\n	Rapidly\,\n\n\n\n	And gold thr
	eads whistling\n\n	Through my mother's hand.\n\n	I saw the web grow\,\n\n	
	And the pattern expand.\n\n\n\n	She wove a child's jacket\,\n\n	And when i
	t was done\n\n	She laid it on the floor\n\n	And wove another one.\n\n\n\n	
	She wove a red cloak\n\n	So regal to see\,\n\n	\"She's made it for a king'
	s son\,\"\n\n	I said\, \"and not for me.\"\n\n	But I knew it was for me.\n
	\n\n\n	She wove a pair of breeches\n\n	Quicker than that!\n\n	She wove a p
	air of boots\n\n	And a little cocked hat.\n\n\n\n	She wove a pair of mitte
	ns\,\n\n	She wove a little blouse\,\n\n	She wove all night\n\n	In the stil
	l\, cold house.\n\n\n\n	She sang as she worked\,\n\n	And the harp-strings 
	spoke\;\n\n	Her voice never faltered\,\n\n	And the thread never broke.\n\n
		And when I awoke\,—\n\n\n\n	There sat my mother\n\n	With the harp again
	st her shoulder\n\n	Looking nineteen\n\n	And not a day older\,\n\n\n\n	A s
	mile about her lips\,\n\n	And a light about her head\,\n\n	And her hands i
	n the harp-strings\n\n	Frozen dead.\n\n\n\n	And piled up beside her\n\n	An
	d toppling to the skies\,\n\n	Were the clothes of a king's son\,\n\n	Just 
	my size.\n\n\n\n	 \n\n\n\n	REFERRAL\n\n\n\n	https://en.wikisource.org/wik
	i/The_Harp-Weaver/The_Ballad_of_the_Harp-Weaver\n\n\n\n	LARGER REFERRAL\n\
	n\n\n	https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Harp-Weaver\n\n\n\n	BACKSTORY\n\n
	\n\n	https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edna_St._Vincent_Millay\n\n\n\n	\n\n\n\
	n	 \n\n
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