“Foolish” am I?—It may be so.
Who, forsooth, are the wise?
I to the wind my sorrows blow:
Others hoard up their sighs.
“Useless” am I?—The while I play,
Many another one’s heart
Throbs to my melody, till, they say,
All of his woes depart.
Nothing of sweetness can fill the air,
Nothing of beauty bloom,