FAMINE AND HARVEST

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!