The Player Queen

by William Butler Yeats

    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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Return to the William Butler Yeats library , or . . . Read the next poem; The Players Ask For A Blessing On The Psalteries And On Themselves