Читать книгу The Song Maker - A Collection of Poems - Sara Teasdale - Страница 16

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.