Sara TeasdaleWhat 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
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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. I know that when they come to me in my sleep, they come to me in my sleep. They are like the sunlight when it peeps through the leaves in the spring, or a breeze that stirs a flower’s heart to open. They are a caress that leaves no scar, a breath that leaves no breath, a voice that leaves no voice. And sometimes when I sing them at night, I feel as if I were singing them to myself.
They are music for music’s sake. What do I care?
Source: Flame And Shadow
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