I did not pluck at all,
And I am sorry now :
The garden is not barred
But the boughs are heavy with snow,
The flake-blossoms thickly fall
And the hid roots sigh, 'How long will our flowers be marred ?'
Strange as a bird were dumb,
Strange as a hueless leaf.
As one deaf hungers to hear,
Or gazes without belief,
The fruit yearned 'Fingers, come !'
0, shut hands, be empty another year.
First Fruit
Isaac Rosenberg
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Poem topics: snow, sorry, bird, fruit, long, hear, garden, year, heavy, belief, strange, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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