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. The Nun
2. A Girls Thoughts
3. God
4. A Question
5. Sleep

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