It's sad to see the parsley die
I bought on Saturday -
So green and fresh and spry, -
Patchey, sagging - yellow now
It must be thrown away.

It should have been a wreath
For some young poet's hair!
Resilient like a great corn-sheaf
It sprang up in the air,
Its bright buds branching everywhere.

This act of throwing it away
Is just as sacred as a birth
At which we all rejoice;
Now at its burial in earth
Cannot you hear its voice?
And have you nothing to say?