Immune.

It is no use to sing me these sad songs—
I cannot care.
No use to tell of sorrows nor of wrongs,
Nor wild despair.
There is no fount of tears within my heart
Thou canst release.
Go, therefore! Thou canst not, by any art,
Disturb my peace.

What is the world, the dreary world, to me,
With all its pains?
I cannot free the slaves of Destiny,
Nor loose their chains;
I have no love to which thou canst appeal.
Thy pleas are vain.
My heart is hard as iron, cold as steel:
Come not again.

And tell me not of joy, of song and mirth;
I stand apart.
No grief nor happiness in all the earth
Can touch my heart.
I have no proud ambition thou canst fire,
No woes to bear,
No vanity, no interest, no desire;
I cannot care.