Murder of a Meadow

One must not force oneself to gather all
A
meadow's fill of blooms is art enough;
Demeter's clergy,
dancing at Her call,
Reduced to wilted fronds through
treatment rough
By sharp'ned blades, the practiced swing of
hand
That do make rude those creatures torn from
home
When shorn with no care from form giving
land,
As ardent whispers breathe not in a tome.
For
naught is Nature improved by a vase
No matter how rare said
vessel may be.
And as containers by nature
debase, 
No ink could describe my fast love for
thee.
Yet though these mere words leave volumes
undone
They lasteth longer, and wilt not in sun.