Writer(s): Cole Porter
(From The Columbia Years, 1943-1952, Disc 11)
You don’t remind me of the iris in spring,
Or of dawn on the mountain when the bluebirds start to sing.
You don’t remind me of the breeze on the bay,
Or a star in the fountain where the silver fishes play.
Through the moonglow in September,
You reveal no resemblance of the first snow in November,
You’re not even a semblance.
No, you don’t remind me of the world around me,
For behind me for so much such,
My love for you blinds me,
That my darling you only remind me of you,
Of you, of you.