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Poem	I HAVE been in the meadows all the day And gathered there the nosegay that you see Singing within myself as bird or bee When such do field-work on a morn of May. But, now I look upon my flowers, decay Has met them in my hands more fatally Because more warmly clasped,--and sobs are free To come instead of songs. What do you say, Sweet counsellors, dear friends ? that I should go Back straightway to the fields and gather more ? Another, sooth, may do it, but not I ! My heart is very tired, my strength is low, My hands are full of blossoms plucked before, Held dead within them till myself shall die.
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