MY mother dandled me and sang, <br />"How young it is, how young!' <br />And made a golden cradle <br />That on a willow swung. <br />"He went away,' my mother sang, <br />"When I was brought to bed,' <br />And all the while her needle pulled <br />The gold and silver thread. <br />She pulled the thread and bit the thread <br />And made a golden gown, <br />And wept because she had dreamt that I <br />Was born to wear a crown. <br />"When she was got,' my mother sang, <br />I heard a sea-mew cry, <br />And saw a flake of the yellow foam <br />That dropped upon my thigh." <br />How therefore could she help but braid <br />The gold into my hair, <br />And dream that I should carry <br />The golden top of care?<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-song-from-the-player-queen/
