Page:Harpweaverothe00mill.pdf/41

 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.