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.
Crowd Score: 0.0
Want to save this story?
Create a free account to build your personal library of favorite stories
Sign Up - It's Free!Already have an account? Log in