What Do I Care?
by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

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.

But 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.

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