"All the seeking" [sonnet]

All the seeking in the world will never find
  the thing that only finding would discover
all the dreaming in the world will not unwind
  the thing that only waking could uncover

I've got a little box of vivid empty hours
  I've spent a mass but some it seems remain
perhaps there are stray seeds among the paper flowers?
  we'll find out when December brings the rain

or when (some future spring) they fling their answering
  to questions that have plagued my idle pate
for now I'm growing weary of the echoing
  September and my tide is growing late

if to the broad design you'd lend some clarity
my gratitude should greet such gentle charity