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 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.