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!” O, shut hands, be empty another year.