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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TWO OLD BACHELORS by EDWARD LEAR SONNET: 42 by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY CRITICS AND CONNOISSEURS by MARIANNE MOORE ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 31 by PHILIP SIDNEY THE STORK by GHALIB IBN RIBAH AL-HAJJAM AURORA by WILLIAM ALEXANDER (1567-1640) |