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.
