“孩子，”当我长到膝盖高的时候，妈妈说，“你需要衣服遮身，而我没有一块破布。家里没有给孩子做裤子、没有剪布的剪刀、也没有缝针的线。“房子里什么都没有，除了一根麦穗，还有一把竖琴，上面有个女人的头，没人会买。”她哭了起来。那是在初秋。当深秋来临的时候，“孩子，”她说，“一看到你，你妈妈就胆战心惊，”瘦削的小肩胛骨刺穿了你的衣服!天知道你从哪里能弄到夹克。“我很幸运，孩子，你爸爸已经入土了，他看不到我让他儿子到处乱跑!”她发出一种奇怪的声音。那是在深秋。当冬天来临时，我没有一条裤子，也没有一件衬衫。 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 and 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 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 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, 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.