|
|
The Song Maker
By Sara Teasdale
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.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 1089 times.
|
|
