Poetry Archives

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!