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.