Famine And Harvest

A poem 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!