I made a hundred little songsThat told the joy and pain of love, And sang them blithely, tho' I knewNo whit thereof.

    I was a weaver deaf and blind；A miracle was wrought for me, But I have lost my skill to weaveSince 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 songsAm silent now.