Poem by Isaac Rosenberg

First Fruit

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. 

1. Don Juans Song
2. Wedded
3. In the Underworld
4. In Piccadi
5. Home-Thoughts From France

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