Harvest
When hope did wither on the vine
and cankered buds fell free
their blighted knots vouchsafed 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
