sweats ‘The Ballad ofthe Harp-Weaver The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver by Edna St. Vincent Millay (/author/edna-st-vincent-millay) The Balad ofthe Harp: Weaver won the 1922 Puller Prive for Poet along wth Fight Sonnets Youre ure in Posty for Students (oot for sincert-mtayecenveight sonnets) and A Few Figs rom Thistle. ‘studeats) an Puitzor Prize Poetry (ultzerpizestpalizer poet) hitpsamsricanIterature.comautorlodna-t-vncert-millaypoomte-ballad-of-bw-harpsweaor 45sweats ‘The Ballad ofthe Harp Weaver ‘SON, When twas knee-high, said my mother, "Youve need of clothes cover you, ‘And not arag have 1. "There's nothing ln the house ‘To make @ boy breeches, Nor shears to cuta cloth with Nor thvead to take stitches. "There's nothing inthe house Buta bat-end of rye, ‘And @ harp with a woman's head Nobody wil buy, And she began t oy. “That was inthe early ft When came the late fal, 'Son,” she sai, "the sight of you Makes your mother’s blood craw "Lite skinny shouléer-blades Sticking through your clothes! ‘And where youll get a jacket from God above knows. R's lucky for me, lad, Your daddy's in the ground, [And can't see the way Tet His son go around!" ‘And she made 2 queer sound. ‘That was in the late fall When the winter came, Td not @ pal of breeches Nor a shit to my name couldnt got school, Or out of doors to ply. ‘And athe other ithe boys Passed our way. 'Son,” said my mother, ‘Come, climb into my bp, {nd I'l chafe your ltl bones While you take @ nap.” And, oh, but we were sity For half an hour or more, Me with my long legs Dragging on the floor, Acrocketockerocking hitpsamsrcanIterature.comauzhorlodna-t-vncert-millaypoomthe-ballad-of-bw-harpsweaor 25wean ‘The Ballad ofthe Harp-Weaver ‘To a mother-goose rhyme! on, but we were nappy For half an hours time! But there was I, great boy, And what would folks say fo hear my mother singing me To sleep al day, Insuch a daft way? Men say the winter Was bad that year; Fuel was scarce, And food was dear ‘Avwind with a wolts head Howled about our door, ‘And we bumed up the chars ‘and sat upon the floor: Allthat was lft us Was @ chair we couldn't break, ‘And the harp wah a woman's head Nobody woul take, For song or pty’s sake. ‘The night before Christmas Tried with the cole, Tried myself to sleep Like a two-yearold [nd in the deep night ett my mother nse, [And stare down upon me Wen fove in her eyes. I saw my mother stting On the one good chat, Aight faling on her From Icouldnt tell where, Looking nineteen, And not a day ober, [and the harp weh a woman's head Leaned against her shoukier Her thin fingers, moving Inthe thn, tall strings, Were weav-weav-weaving Wonderful things. Many bright threads, From where Icoulent see, Were running through the harp-strings hitpsamsrcanIterature.comauzhorlodna-t-vncert-millaypoomthe-ballad-of-bw-harpsweaor