Harvest

 

 

When hope did wither on the vine

and cankered buds fell free

their blighted knots did vouch no gale

would rock the fruiting tree

 

And bring its pendent bundles down

their promise unfulfilled

their beads no golden solstice bless

nor vintage blood be spilled

 

No mangling winepress of the earth

would pulp the skin and flesh

nor crimson spirit swell the veins

with life and faith afresh

 

When hope did wither on the vine

it mocked the turning world

the oyster bore its grit in vain

no tears begot no pearl