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.

I liked the poem of hers that featured in Minstrels, so I looked for more by her. And I found this defiant, slightly sad poem. She seems to believe in the evanescence of things… more, she seems to scorn them, and herself for having truck with them.

What I love is the note of ‘Yes, I am weak to feel/do this, but this isn’t really me - it’s someone else that I indulge.’ There is a sense of something strong and beautiful that endures the passing foolishness of a weak spirit.