First Fruit 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.