Classic Poem

She hadn't any fire and she hadn't any bed,
She hadn't any cupboard and she hadn't any bread,
She hadn't any table and she hadn't any chair.
She hadn't any comb for her thin gray hair.
She hadn't any cloak so she had to stay in.
She hadn't any flour and she hadn't any bin.
She hadn't any petticoat—'twas all worn out.
She scrubbed up the floor with its last old clout.
She was old, she was cold, she was bent, she was poor.
If the weather kept on she would have to burn the door.
Oh, but she was hungry! She gnawed at a stone.
She snapped at the moonlight like a hard white bone.
The wind pawed and growled and worried it around
And buried it at last in the frozen black ground.
She hadn't any neighbor—she hadn't any news—
She hadn't any coverlet—she hadn't any shoes.
But when she grew so cold she was numb above her knees,
When the tears froze in her eyes, and she knew she would freeze,
When the moon on the wall hung its tapestries of white
In a chamber richly pale decked with ornaments of light;
When the moon on the floor in a strange mosaic shone
Like silver richly graved in a cold white stone;
When a ceremonial splendor left a spell upon the air
And a pageant swept and glittered down an alabaster stair;
When a banquet table carved with shining shapes
Blossomed with pomegranates and pale gold grapes—
Bread of elfin filigree, silver carved like capon,
Diamonds and emeralds set in the venison;
When the icicles that hung all around the open door
Were all lighted up so they flashed in the air
With a keen unearthly flare like a great chandelier;
When the wind ceased to whine and made a lovely sound—
Music in the air, music in the ground—
Music all around, quaint, curiously thin—
Like a far-away flute and an ancient violin
In an old proud dance. . . . Then the haggard old crone
Crept from her straw and stood up alone.
She hopped and she lurched across the icy floor,
She stumbled to the closet, she opened the door,
She took down a dress—it bristled with gold!—
Silver in the pattern, silver in the fold—
Beautiful with colors of a dark moth's wing—
Woven as with music. You could almost hear it sing.
She put the dress on, and she stood up so fine,
With a strange unearthly glitter in the moon shine.
The dress spread around in splendor on the stone
Where the pale moonlight in a strange mosaic shone
And just for an instant with a gay light cry
It seemed as if a revel in the air swept by.
And a gold cloaked monarch stepped from off his throne—
Jewels in his shoes, jewels in his crown—
With his hand on his heart he bowed way down.

Suddenly a voice was lifted up high
And the old crone spoke with a shrill fantastic cry.
‘I haven't any fire and I haven't any bed,
I haven't any cupboard and I haven't any bread.
I haven't any plate and I haven't any cup.
I haven't any crutch. It's been burned up!
I haven't any dish, I haven't any kettle.
I've no place to sit for I haven't any settle.
I haven't any petticoat! It's all worn out.
I scrubbed up the floor with its last old clout.
And if I have a name it's one I cannot find.
The name my mother gave me has gone from my mind.
When I am dead the folks will all be laughing!
It's on a board I'll lie—for there won't be any coffin,
And when I'm in the yard and am nothing but a bone
There'll be no word of God carved for me on any stone.’
Then she stretched out her arms—she raised her arms high—
And she lifted all alone a harsh triumphant cry—
Like the fierce proud music of an old heroic strain
When a wild horse dies on a solitary plain.
‘I haven't any fire and I'm old, old, old!
But I have the silver gown embroidered with gold—
Jewels in the pattern—jewels in the fold—
That I wore—when I danced—with the great King of Spain.’