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Dante Gabriel Rossetti - Sonnet LXXXII: Hoarded Joy
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I said: “Nay, pluck not,—let the first fruit be:
Even as thou sayest, it is sweet and red,
But let it ripen still. The tree`s bent head
Sees in the stream its own fecundity
And bides the day of fulness. Shall not we
At the sun`s hour that day possess the shade,
And claim our fruit before its ripeness fade,
And eat it from the branch and praise the tree?”
I say: “Alas! our fruit hath wooed the sun
Too long,—`tis fallen and floats adown the stream.
Lo, the last clusters! Pluck them every one,
And let us sup with summer; ere the gleam
Of autumn set the year`s pent sorrow free,
And the woods wail like echoes from the sea.”
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