The Poetry Corner

Famine And Harvest

By George Parsons Lathrop

[PLYMOUTH PLANTATION: 1622] The strong and the tender, The young and the old, Unto Death we must render; - Our silver, our gold. To break their long sleeping No voice may avail: They hear not our weeping - Our famished love's wail. Yea, those whom we cherish Depart, day by day. Soon we, too, shall perish And crumble to clay. And the vine and the berry Above us will bloom; The wind shall make merry While we lie in gloom. Fear not! Though thou starvest, Provision is made: God gathers His harvest When our hopes fade!