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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FONTENOY by THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS ODE ON INDOLENCE by JOHN KEATS MY CRYSTAL BRIDE by WILLIAM EDWARD ADAMS SONNET: THE LORELEI by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE HIGHLAND LASSIE by ROBERT BURNS |