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.
