My mother dandled me and sang,
'How young it is, how young!'
And made a golden cradle
That on a willow swung.

'He went away,' my mother sang,
'When I was brought to bed,'
And all the while her needle pulled
The gold and silver thread.

She pulled the thread and bit the thread
And made a golden gown,
And wept because she had dreamt that I
Was born to wear a crown.

'When she was got,' my mother sang,
I heard a sea-mew cry,
And saw a flake of the yellow foam
That dropped upon my thigh.'

How therefore could she help but braid
The gold into my hair,
And dream that I should carry
The golden top of care?

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 13920 times | Comments (0)

Poet: William Butler Yeats
Poem: A Song From 'The Player Queen'
Volume: Responsibilities
Year: Published/Written in 1914
Poem of the Day on:
Nov 5 2003
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