 The Ballad of the Harp Weaver by Edna St. Vincent Millay Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake 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 a loaf-end of rye, And a harp with a woman's head nobody will buy. And she began to cry. That was in the early fall. When came the late fall? Son, she said, the sight of you makes your mother's blood crawl, Little skinny shoulder blades sticking through your clothes, And where you'll get a jacket from God above nose. It's lucky for me, lad, your daddy's in the ground, And can't see the way I let his son go around. And she made a queer sound. That was in the late fall. When the winter came, I'd not had a pair of breeches, Nor a shirt to my name. I couldn't go to school or out of doors to play, And all the other boys passed our way. Son, said my mother, come, climb into my lap, And I'll chafe your little bones while you take a nap. And oh, but we were silly for half an hour or more Me with my long legs dragging on the floor. A rock, rock, rocking to a mother-goose rhyme. Oh, but we were happy for half an hour's time. But there was I, a great boy. And what would folks say to hear my mother singing me To sleep all day in such a daft way? Men say the winter was bad that year. Fuel was scarce and food was dear. A wind with a wolf's head howled about our door, And we burned up the chairs and sat upon the floor. All that was left us was a chair we couldn't break, And the harp with a woman's head nobody would take For song or pity's sake. The night before Christmas I cried with the 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 weave, weave, weaving wonderful things. Many bright threads from where I couldn't see Were 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 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 britches quicker than that. She wove a pair of boots and a little cock-tat. She wove a pair of mittens. She 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 nineteen, 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 up beside her, and toppled to the skies, Where the clothes of a king's son, just my size. Son said my mother when I was knee-high, You but need a close to cover you, and not a rag, have I. There's nothing in the house to make a boy britches, No shears to cut cloth with, no thread to take stitches. There's nothing in the house but a loaf and a rye, And a harp with a woman's head nobody will buy. She began to cry. That was in the early fall, when came the late fall. Son, she said, the sight of you makes your mother's blood crawl, Little skinny shoulder blades sticking through your clothes, And where you get a jacket from God above nose. It's lucky for me, lad, your daddy's in the ground, And can't see the way I let his son go round. And she made a queer sound. That was in the late fall, when the winter came I'd not a pair of britches nor a shirt to my name. I couldn't go to school or out of doors to play, And all the other little boys fast our way. Son, said my mother, come climb into my lap, And I'll chafe your little bones while you take a nap. And oh, but we were silly for half an hour or more, Me with my long legs dragging on the floor, A rock rock rocking to a mother goose rhyme. Oh, but we were happy for half an hour's time. But there was I, a great boy, And what would folks say to hear my mother singing me to sleep all day? In such a daft way. Men say the winter was bad that year. Fuel was scarce, and food was dear. A wind with a wolf's head howled about our door, And we burned up the chairs and sat up on the floor. All that was left us was a chair we couldn't break, And the harp with a woman's head nobody would take, For song or pity's sake. The night before Christmas I cried with the 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-polygoner from where I couldn't tell where, Looking nineteen or 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 weave, weave, weaving. Wonderful things. Many bright threads from where I couldn't see Were running through the half-strings rapidly, On gold threads whistling through my mother's hand. I saw the web grow and the pattern expand. She wore a child's jacket and when it was done She laid it on the floor and wore another one. She wore a red cloak so, 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 wore a pair of breeches quicker than that. She wore a pair of boots and a little cocked hat. She wore a pair of mittens. She wore a little blouse. She wore all night in that still cold house. She sang as she worked and the half-strings spoke, And her hoist never faltered and the thread never broke. And when I awoke there sat my mother With the harp against her shoulder, Looking nineteen or not a day older. A smile about her lips and a light about her head, And in her hands the half-strings, frozen, Dead. And piled up beside her and toppling to the skies With the clothes of a king's son. Just my size. End of poem. This recording is placed in the public domain. There's nothing in the house to make a boy britches, Nor shears to cut a cloth with, nor thread to take stitches. There's nothing in the house but a loaf end of rye And a harp with a woman's head nobody will buy. And she began to cry. That was in the early fall. When came the late fall? Son, she said, the sight of you makes your mother cry. The sight of you makes your mother's blood crawl. Little skinny shoulder blades sticking through your clothes. And where you'll get a jacket from? God above knows. It's lucky for me, lad, your daddy's in the ground. And can't see the way I let his 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 britches, Nor a shirt to my name. I couldn't go to school, or out of doors to play. And all the other little boys passed our way. Son, said my mother, come climb into my lap, And I'll chafe your little bones while you take a nap. And oh, but we were silly for half an hour or more. Me, with my long legs dragging on the floor. A rock, rock, rocking to a mother goose rhyme. Oh, but we were happy for half an hour's time. But there was I, a great boy, And what would folks say to hear my mother singing me to sleep all day? In such a daft way. Men say the winter was bad that year. Fuel was scarce, and food was dear. A wind with a wolf's head howled about our door. And we burned up the chairs and sat upon the floor. All that was left us was a chair we couldn't break. In the harp, with a woman's head nobody would take. For song or pity's sake. The night before Christmas I cried with the 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 weave, weave, weaving wonderful things. Many bright threads from where I couldn't see were 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 britches quicker than that. She wove a pair of boots and a little cocked hat. She wove a pair of mittens. She 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 nineteen 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 up beside her and toppling to the skies with the clothes of a king's son, just my size. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. My son said my mother when I was knee-high, you need of clothes to cover you and not a rag have eye. There's nothing in the house to make a boy britches nor shears to cut a cloth with nor thread to take stitches. There's nothing in the house but a loaf end of rye and a harp with a woman's head nobody will buy. And she began to cry. That was in the early fall, when came the late fall. She said, the sight of you makes your mother's blood crawl, little skinny shoulder blades sticking through your clothes and where you'll get a jacket from, God above knows. It's lucky for me lad, your daddy's in the ground and can't see the way I let his 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 britches nor a shirt to my name. I'd go to school or out of doors to play and all the other little boys passed our way. Son said my mother, come climb into my lap and I'll shave your little bones while you take a nap. And oh, but we were silly for half an hour or more, me with my long legs dragging on the floor, a rock, rock, rocking to a mother goose rhyme. Oh, but we were happy for half an hour's time. But there was I, a great boy, and what would folks say to hear my mother singing me to sleep all day in such a daft way? Men say the winter was bad that year. Fuel was scarce and food was dear. A wind with a wolf's head howled about our door and we burned up the chairs and sat upon the floor. All that was left us was a chair we couldn't break and the harp with a woman's head nobody would take for song or pity's sake. The night before Christmas I cried with the 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 weave, weave, weaving wonderful things. Many bright threads from where I couldn't see were 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 cocked hat. She wove a pair of mittens. She 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 nineteen and not a day older, a smile about her lips and a light about her head and her hands and the harp springs frozen dead. And piled up beside her and toppling to the skies were the clothes of a king's son, just my size. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Ballad of the Harp Weaver by Edna St. Vincent Millay Read for LibriVox.org by Laura Caldwell. 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 a loaf end of rye and a harp with the woman's head nobody will buy. And she began to cry. That was in the early fall. When came the late fall? Son, she said. The sight of you makes your mother's blood crawl. Little skinny shoulder blades sticking through your clothes and where'll you get a jacket from? God above knows. It's lucky for me, lad, your daddy's in the ground and can't see the way I let his 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 breeches nor a shirt to my name. I couldn't go to school or out of doors to play and all the other little boys passed our way. Son, said my mother, come, climb into my lap and I'll chafe your little bones while you take a nap. And, oh, but we were silly for half an hour or more me with my long legs dragging on the floor. A rock, rock, rocking to a mother goose rhyme. Oh, but we were happy for half an hour's time. But there was I, a great boy, and what would folks say to hear my mother singing me to sleep all day in such a daft way? Men say the winter was bad that year. The fuel was scarce and food was dear. A wind with a wolf's head howled about our door and we burned up the chairs and sat upon the floor. All that was left us was a chair we couldn't break and the harp with a woman's head nobody would take for song or pity's sake. The night before Christmas I cried with the cold. I cried myself to sleep like a two-year-old. And at the deep night I felt my mother rise and stare 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. Licking 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 weave weave weaving wonderful things. Many bright threads from where I couldn't see were 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 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 cocked hat. She wove a pair of mittens. She wove a little blouse. She wove all night in the still cold house. She sang as she worked and the harp string 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 nineteen 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 up beside her and toppling to the skies were the clothes of a king's son just my size. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Ballad of the Harp Weaver by Edna St. Vincent Malay Read for LibriVox.org by Robert Scott mojo move 411.com 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 a loaf end of rye and a harp with a woman's head nobody will buy and she began to cry. That was in the early fall. When came the late fall son she said the sight of you makes your mother's blood crawl little skinny shoulder blades sticking through your clothes and where you'll get a jacket from God above nose. It's lucky for me lad your daddy's in the ground and can't see the way I let his 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 breeches nor a shirt to my name. I couldn't go to school or out of doors to play and all the other little boys passed our way. Son, said my mother, come climb into my lap and I'll chafe your little bones while you take a nap. Oh, but we were silly for half an hour or more me with my long legs dangling on the floor. A rock, rock, rocking to a mother goose rhyme. Oh, but we were happy for half an hour's time. But there was I a great boy and what would folks say to hear my mother singing me to sleep all day in such a daft way? Men say the winter was bad that year. Fuel was scarce and food was dear. A wind with a wolf's head howled about our door and we burned up the chairs and sat upon the floor. All that was left us was a chair we couldn't break and the harp with a woman's head nobody would take for song or pity's sake. The night before Christmas I cried with the 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 weave, weave, weaving wonderful things. Many bright threads from where I couldn't see were 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 wore the child's jacket and when it was done she laid it on the floor and wove another one. She wore the 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 cocked hat. She wove a pair of mittens. She 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 nineteen 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 up beside her and toppling to the skies were the clothes of a king's son just my size. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. The Ballad of the Harp Weaver by Edna St. Vincent Millay Read for LibriVox.org by Sara Corsmo 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 a low friend of rye and a harp with a woman's head nobody will buy and she began to cry. That was in the early fall. When came the late fall Son she said the sight of you makes your mother's blood crawl little skinny shoulder blades sticking through your clothes and where you'll get a jacket from God above nose. It's lucky for me lad your daddy's in the ground and can't see the way I let his 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 breeches nor a shirt to my name. I couldn't go to school or out of doors to play and all the other little boys passed our way. Son said my mother come climb into my lap and I'll chafe your little bones while you take a nap and oh but we were silly for half an hour or more me with my long legs dragging on the floor a rock rock rocking to a mother goose rhyme oh but we were happy for half an hour's time but there was I a great boy and what would folks say to hear my mother singing me to sleep all day in such a daft way. Men say the winter was bad that year fuel was scarce and food was dear a wind with a wolf's head howled about our door and we burned up the chairs and sat upon the floor all that was left us was a chair we couldn't break and the harp with a woman's head nobody would take for song or pity's sake. The night before Christmas I cried with the 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 for my 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 weave weave weaving wonderful things many bright threads from where I couldn't see were 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 cocked hat she wove a pair of mittens she 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 nineteen 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 up beside her and toppling to the skies with the clothes of a king's son just my size End of poem, this recording is in the public domain