by Edna St. Vincent Millay
“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 with,Nor 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 nineteen,And 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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