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.