The Song Maker

I made a hundred little songs That told the joy and pain of love,

And sang them blithely, tho' I knew No whit thereof.

I was a weaver deaf and blind;

A miracle was wrought for me,

But I have lost my skill to weave Since 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 songs Am silent now.