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The Harp Weaver
by
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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The night before Christmas I cried with cold I cried myself to sleep Like a two-year old And in the deep night I felt my mother rise And stare down upon me With love in her eyes I saw my mother sitting On the one good chair A light falling on her From I couldn't tell where Looking nineteen And not a day older And the harp with a woman's head Leaned against her shoulder Her thin fingers, moving In the thin, tall strings Were weav-weav-weaving Wonderful things Many bright thrеads From where I couldn't see Werе running through the harp-strings Rapidly And gold threads whistling Through my mother's hand I saw the web grow And the pattern expand She wove a child's jacket And when it was done She laid it on the floor And wove another one She wove a red cloak 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 breeches Quicker than that! She wove a pair of boots And a little c*cked hat She wove a pair of mittens Shw wove a little blouse She wove all night 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 mother With the harp against her shoulder Looking nineteeen And not a day older A smile about her lips And a light about her head And her hands in the harp-strings Frozen dead And piled beside her And toppling to the skies Were the clothes of a king's son Just my size
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