What do I care?

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.