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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536291" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Crane</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536291" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The biggest crane on earth, it lifts <br>Two hundred ton more easily <br>Than I can lift my heavy head: <br>And when it swings, the whole world shifts, <br>Or so, at least, it seems to me, <br>As, day and night, adream I lie <br>Upon my crippled back in bed, <br>And watch it against the sky.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536291" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">My mother, hunching in her chair, <br>Day-long, and stitching trousers there-- <br>At three-and-three the dozen pair . . . <br>She'd sit all night, and stitch for me, <br>Her son, if I could only wear . . . <br>She never lifts her eyes to see <br>The big crane swinging through the air.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536291" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But though she has no time to talk, <br>She always cleans the window-pane, <br>That I may see it clear and plain: <br>And as I watch it move, I walk <br>Who never walked in all my days . . . <br>And often, as I dream agaze, <br>I'm up and out, and it is I <br>Who swing the crane across the sky.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536291" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Right up above the wharf I stand, <br>And touch a lever with my hand, <br>To lift a bunch of girders high, <br>A truck of coal, a field of grain <br>In sacks, a bundle of big trees, <br>Or beasts, too frightened in my grip <br>To wonder at their skiey trip: <br>And then I let the long arm dip <br>Without a hitch, without a slip, <br>To set them safely in the ship <br>That waits to take them overseas.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536291" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">My mother little dreams it's I, <br>Up there, tiny as a fly, <br>Who stand above the biggest crane, <br>And swing the ship-loads through the sky; <br>While she sits, hunching in her chair, <br>Day-long, and stitching trousers there-- <br>At three-and-three the dozen pair.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536291" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And sometimes when it turns me dizzy, <br>I lie and watch her, ever busy; <br>And wonder at a lot of things <br>I never speak to her about: <br>I wonder why she never sings <br>Like other people on the stair . . . <br>And why, whenever she goes out <br>Upon a windy day, the air <br>Makes her sad eyes so strangely bright . . . <br>And if the colour of her hair <br>Was brown like mine, or always white . . . <br>And why, when through the noise of feet <br>Of people passing in the street, <br>She hears a dog yelp or sheep bleat, <br>She always starts up in her chair, <br>And looks before her with strange stare, <br>Yet seeing nothing anywhere: <br>Though right before her, through the sky, <br>The biggest crane goes swinging by.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536291" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But it's a lucky day and rare <br>When she's the time to talk with me . . . <br>Though, only yesterday, when night <br>Shut out, at last, the crane from sight . . . <br>She, in her bed, and thinking I <br>Was sleeping -- though I watch the sky, <br>At times, till it is morning light, <br>And ships are waiting to unload-- <br>I heard her murmur drowsily: <br>"The pit-pattering of feet, <br>All night, along the moonlit road . . . <br>A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat . . . <br>The bracken's deep and soft and dry . . . <br>And safe and snug, and no one near . . . <br>The little burn sings low and sweet, <br>The little burn sings shrill and clear . . .</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536291" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And loud all night the cock-grouse talks . . . <br>There's naught in heaven or earth to fear . . . <br>The pit-pat-pattering of feet . . . <br>A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat . . ." <br>And then she started up in bead: <br>I felt her staring, as she said: <br>"I wonder if he ever hears <br>The pit-pat-pattering of sheep, <br>Or smells the broken bracke stalks . . . <br>While she is lying sound asleep <br>Beside him . . . after all these years -- <br>Just ninteen years, this very night -- <br>Remembering? . . . and now, his son, <br>A man . . . and never stood upright!"</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536291" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And then I heard a sound of tears; <br>But dared not speak, or let her know <br>I'd caught a single whisper, though <br>I wondered long what she had done <br>That she should hear the pattering feet: <br>And when those queer words in the night <br>Had fretted me half-dead with fright, <br>And set my throbbing head abeat . . . <br>Out of the darkness, suddenly, <br>The crane's long arm swung over me, <br>Among the stars, high overhead . . . <br>And then it dipped, and clutched my bed: <br>And I had not a breath to cry, <br>Before it swung me through the sky, <br>Above the sleeping city high, <br>Where blinding stars went blazing by . . .</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536291" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">My mother, hunching in her chair, <br>Day-long, and stitching trousers there, <br>At three-and-three the dozen pair, <br>With quiet eyes and smooth white hair . . . <br>You'd little think a yelp or bleat <br>Could start her; or that she was weeping <br>So sorely, when she thought me sleeping. <br>She never tells me why she fears <br>The pit-pat-pattering of feet <br>All night along the moonlight road . . . <br>Or what's the wrong that she has done . . . <br>I wonder if 't would bring her tears, <br>If she could know that I, her son-- <br>A man, who never stood upright, <br>But all the livelong day must lie, <br>And watch, beyond the window-pane <br>The swaying of the biggest crane-- <br>That I, within its clutch, last night, <br>Went whirling through the starry sky.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Wilfred+Wilson+Gibson">Wilfred Wilson Gibson</a></strong></div>