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

Hath 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.