What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring, That my songs do not show me at all? For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire; I am an answer, they are only a call. What do I care -- for love will be over so soon -- Let my heart have its say, and my mind stand idly by. For my mind is proud, and strong enough to be silent-- It is my heart that makes my songs, not I. |