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 sk** to weave
Since I can see.
For while I sang—ah swift and strange!
Love pa**ed and touched me on the brow,
And I who made so many songs
Am silent now.