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...CHERRY BLOSSOMS BLOWING IN WEST BLOWING SNOW by JAMES GALVIN SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: EPILOGUE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO A FRIEND IN THE MAKING by MARIANNE MOORE YOUTH'S IMMORTALITY by GEORGE SANTAYANA |