I made a hundred little songs
That told the joy and pain of love,
And sang them blithely, though I knew
Nothing 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—oh swift and strange!
Love passed and touched me on the brow,
And I who made so many songs
Am silent now.