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...SMALL COUNTRIES by JAMES GALVIN IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: BARNEY HAINSFEATHER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JOSEPH DIXON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |