"I know no songs," said the dream, sadly.
"You lie," said the old man. "I saw the songs last night in the depths of your eyes."
"I cannot sing them to you," said the dream. "I can only sing them to the simple hearts I made them for, the hearts you stole me from."
"Stole you!" said the old man. "Did I not leave my treasure in exchange?"
"Your treasure will be nothing to them without me," said the dream.
"You talk folly," said the old man. "With my treasure they can buy other dreams just as fair as you are. Do you think that you are the only dream in the world? There is no dream that money cannot buy."
"But I am their own dream. They will be happy with no other," said the dream.
"You shall sing to me, all the same," said the old man, angrily. But the dream shrank from him and covered its face.
"If I sang to you, you would not understand. Your heart is old and hard and cruel, and my songs are all of youth and love and joy."