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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.