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Poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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.
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