Analysis of The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver
"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 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 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.
Scheme | Abcb Ddxx Dbebb ffcf xxxx xgxgg fhdh xixi Ajxj klxl mnkn xikii aoxo elxl pqEqq prxr stkt muau vAEa mwmw xkwk mxxx xyly zkykk d1 x1 xdsd xzxzz aAva xewe atyt |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11110 11111 11111101 010111 110001 11011 1111011 111110 110001 101111 00110101 111 010111 1100101 11011 1110111 111011 1010101 10111 01110101 1011 110111 110001 0110111 11101 011011 110011 10101 110111 101111 110111 111111 01010101 1101 11110 110111 0111101 11101 0111010 1101011 11111 10101 01110 101011 111010 111101 1111011 01111 11110101 1111 01011 11010 1111 1011 0111 011011 101101 011101 010101 11111 1011101 00110101 111 11111 010110 1111 11111 10111 00011 111101 011011 11001 1111010 10111 011010 111011 1011 010110 00110101 101010 011010 00111 01110 1001 1011 111101 0101011 100 01110 11101 11011 001001 110110 01111 111101 010101 11011 11011 1111011 110111 1111111 110111 1011 110111 001011 1101110 110101 1111 00111 11111 00111 011010 001101 01101 11110 10101010 101 010110 010101 0010101 0010011 101 01010 0100101 0011011 111 |
Closest metre | Iambic trimeter |
Characters | 3,012 |
Words | 619 |
Sentences | 35 |
Stanzas | 30 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 4, 5, 4, 4, 5, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 5, 4, 4, 5, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 5, 4, 4, 5, 4, 4, 4 |
Lines Amount | 126 |
Letters per line (avg) | 19 |
Words per line (avg) | 5 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 79 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 20 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 13, 2023
- 3:10 min read
- 161 Views
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"The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 8 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/9457/the-ballad-of-the-harp-weaver>.
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