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 e instead of songs.    do you say,

        S sellors, 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.
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