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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A WINTER'S NIGHT by ROBERT FROST THE FEAST OF LIGHTS by EMMA LAZARUS BACCALAUREATE by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH THE MAN WITH THE WOODEN LEG by KATHERINE MANSFIELD CITIES OF THE PLAIN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS NORTH WIND TO DUTIFUL BEAST MIDWAY BETWEEN DIAL & FOOT OF GARDEN CLOCK by MARIANNE MOORE |