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Poem	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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