The Song Maker Poem by Sara Teasdale
The Song Maker
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.
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4/25/2024 6:37:22 AM # 1.0.0.1119
