The Song Maker

I made a hundred little songsThat told the joy and pain of love, And sang them blithely, tho' I knewNo whit thereof.

I was a weaver deaf and blind;A miracle was wrought for me, But I have lost my skill to weaveSince I can see.

For while I sang -- ah swift and strange!Love passed and touched me on the brow, And I who made so many songsAm silent now.