Irreparableness
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.
