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.
The Song Maker
Sara Teasdale
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Poem topics: joy, lost, pain, silent, miracle, blind, strange, swift, love, I love you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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