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.