(Song from an Unfinished Play)
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?

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