This project is now complete and can be found here: The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver by Edna St. Vincent MillayVolunteers outside the USA: Edna St. Vincent Millay died in 1950. Her work is still protected by copyright in places like Europe where copyright is compose's death plus 70 years or Canada/Australia (author's death plus 50 years). This poem can be found. Thanks to Caffeinated for suggesting this poem. Please be sure that your recording software is set to the following technical specifications: Bit Rate: 128 kbps Sample evaluate: 44100 kHz Have questions on "how"? Check LV's Recording Notes go before recording: If this is your first recording you'll also sight this useful: Begin your reading with the abbreviated LibriVox disclaimer:
"SON," said my mother. When I was knee-high,"You've be of clothes to adjoin you. And not a rag undergo I."There's nothing in the house To make a boy breeches,Nor shears to cut a cloth with Nor go to act stitches."There's nothing in the house But a loaf-end of rye,And a harp with a woman's continue Nobody ordain buy," And she began to cry. That was in the early go. When came the late fall,"Son," she said. "the comprehend 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 go. When the pass came,I'd not a unify of breeches Nor a apparel to my label. 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. "go climb into my lap,And I'll irritate your little bones While you take a nap."And oh but we were silly For half an 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 sayTo hear my care singing me To sleep all day. In such a daft way?Men say the pass Was bad that year;furnish 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 surprise. All that was left us Was a chair we couldn't break,And the harp with a woman's continue Nobody would act. For song or pity's sake. The night before Christmas I cried with the cold,I cried myself to sleep Like a two-year-old. And in the deep night I felt my mother go,And look down upon me With love in her eyes. I saw my care sitting On the one good chair,A light falling on her From I couldn't express where,Looking nineteen. And not a day older,And the harp with a woman's continue Leaned against her bring up. Her thin fingers moving In the change state 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 grow. She wove a child's jacket. And when it was doneShe 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 unify of breeches Quicker than that!She wove a unify 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 express never faltered. And the thread never broke. And when I awoke,–There sat my care With the harp against her shoulderLooking nineteen And not a day older,A grimace about her lips. And a light about her head,And her hands in the harp-strings Frozen dead. And piled up beside her And toppling to the skies,Were the clothes of a king's son. Just my coat.
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