I he day

    And gat you see

    Singing hin myself as bird or bee

    hen such do field-work on a morn of May.

    But, now I look upon my flowers, decay

    tally

    Because more warmly clasped,--and sobs are free

    to come instead of songs.  do you say,

    S counsellors, dear friends ? t I should go

    Back straigo ther more ?

    Anot, but not I !

    My  is very tired, my strength is low,

    My hands are full of blossoms plucked before,

    ill myself shall die.