Unharvested

I

THE night air is still, my window open.
I lean upon the casement and look out
At stars that seem to hang dim
In the autumn-thinned tree-tops—
Like fruit that is over-ripe and unharvested—
And at the moon's gold on a vine of cloud
A-wither along the low edge of the East.

I number the fall of six leaves, silently,
And of six heart-beats that slow time
As softly scatters through me:
Then my will wanders, and dissolves
In the grey sighing distances of sadness:
For so much in me too lies unharvested.

II

Who was it that first leant thus from a window
And felt himself but a tired mote
In a tireless universe?
Who was it first said 'I' to the selfless sky
After a day of mute longing and labour?

Restless querying thought, there is no answer,
And you but wake a worn bird in the branches,
But wake my soul that slept.