The biggest crane on earth, it lifts 
Two hundred ton more easily 
Than I can lift my heavy head: 
And when it swings, the whole world shifts, 
Or so, at least, it seems to me, 
As, day and night, adream I lie 
Upon my crippled back in bed, 
And watch it against the sky.

My mother, hunching in her chair, 
Day-long, and stitching trousers there-- 
At three-and-three the dozen pair . . . 
She'd sit all night, and stitch for me, 
Her son, if I could only wear . . . 
She never lifts her eyes to see 
The big crane swinging through the air.

But though she has no time to talk, 
She always cleans the window-pane, 
That I may see it clear and plain: 
And as I watch it move, I walk 
Who never walked in all my days . . . 
And often, as I dream agaze, 
I'm up and out, and it is I 
Who swing the crane across the sky.

Right up above the wharf I stand, 
And touch a lever with my hand, 
To lift a bunch of girders high, 
A truck of coal, a field of grain 
In sacks, a bundle of big trees, 
Or beasts, too frightened in my grip 
To wonder at their skiey trip: 
And then I let the long arm dip 
Without a hitch, without a slip, 
To set them safely in the ship 
That waits to take them overseas.

My mother little dreams it's I, 
Up there, tiny as a fly, 
Who stand above the biggest crane, 
And swing the ship-loads through the sky; 
While she sits, hunching in her chair, 
Day-long, and stitching trousers there-- 
At three-and-three the dozen pair.

And sometimes when it turns me dizzy, 
I lie and watch her, ever busy; 
And wonder at a lot of things 
I never speak to her about: 
I wonder why she never sings 
Like other people on the stair . . . 
And why, whenever she goes out 
Upon a windy day, the air 
Makes her sad eyes so strangely bright . . . 
And if the colour of her hair 
Was brown like mine, or always white . . . 
And why, when through the noise of feet 
Of people passing in the street, 
She hears a dog yelp or sheep bleat, 
She always starts up in her chair, 
And looks before her with strange stare, 
Yet seeing nothing anywhere: 
Though right before her, through the sky, 
The biggest crane goes swinging by.

But it's a lucky day and rare 
When she's the time to talk with me . . . 
Though, only yesterday, when night 
Shut out, at last, the crane from sight . . . 
She, in her bed, and thinking I 
Was sleeping -- though I watch the sky, 
At times, till it is morning light, 
And ships are waiting to unload-- 
I heard her murmur drowsily: 
"The pit-pattering of feet, 
All night, along the moonlit road . . . 
A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat . . . 
The bracken's deep and soft and dry . . . 
And safe and snug, and no one near . . . 
The little burn sings low and sweet, 
The little burn sings shrill and clear . . .

And loud all night the cock-grouse talks . . . 
There's naught in heaven or earth to fear . . . 
The pit-pat-pattering of feet . . . 
A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat . . ." 
And then she started up in bead: 
I felt her staring, as she said: 
"I wonder if he ever hears 
The pit-pat-pattering of sheep, 
Or smells the broken bracke stalks . . . 
While she is lying sound asleep 
Beside him . . . after all these years -- 
Just ninteen years, this very night -- 
Remembering? . . . and now, his son, 
A man . . . and never stood upright!"

And then I heard a sound of tears; 
But dared not speak, or let her know 
I'd caught a single whisper, though 
I wondered long what she had done 
That she should hear the pattering feet: 
And when those queer words in the night 
Had fretted me half-dead with fright, 
And set my throbbing head abeat . . . 
Out of the darkness, suddenly, 
The crane's long arm swung over me, 
Among the stars, high overhead . . . 
And then it dipped, and clutched my bed: 
And I had not a breath to cry, 
Before it swung me through the sky, 
Above the sleeping city high, 
Where blinding stars went blazing by . . .

My mother, hunching in her chair, 
Day-long, and stitching trousers there, 
At three-and-three the dozen pair, 
With quiet eyes and smooth white hair . . . 
You'd little think a yelp or bleat 
Could start her; or that she was weeping 
So sorely, when she thought me sleeping. 
She never tells me why she fears 
The pit-pat-pattering of feet 
All night along the moonlight road . . . 
Or what's the wrong that she has done . . . 
I wonder if 't would bring her tears, 
If she could know that I, her son-- 
A man, who never stood upright, 
But all the livelong day must lie, 
And watch, beyond the window-pane 
The swaying of the biggest crane-- 
That I, within its clutch, last night, 
Went whirling through the starry sky.