You gave me bread when I wanted a flower, Wanted a valiant primrose flower, A flower strong with the joy of Spring, A flower to make me sing.
You gave me bread when I wanted a harp, Wanted a deep-toned singing harp, A harp with a tongue in every string, A harp to make me sing.
My soul was starved—I took the bread. How could I sing when flesh was dead?
The speaker keeps asking for something beautiful and keeps being handed something practical. Twice she wants a thing that would make her sing, first a spring primrose, then a harp "with a tongue in every string," and twice she receives bread. The repetition, and the near-identical wording of each stanza, gives the poem a worn, patient quality, as if this has happened more than once.
The last two lines turn the whole thing around. She took the bread because her "soul was starved," yet the closing question suggests that bread alone could not fix what was wrong. How can anyone sing when "flesh was dead"? The phrase is ambiguous. It might mean physical exhaustion or hunger, or a numbness of spirit. Either way, she isn't ungrateful so much as stuck.
The mood is quiet and sorrowful, with a flicker of reproach. Basic survival is offered, but joy and creativity are what she was really after.