Main menu


Forth went Sower. People smiled,
And thought 'twas strange indeed.
No wife had he –no mate, no child,
Only himself to feed.
Yet springtime mile, or winter wild,
Alike he sowed his seed.
Forth went the Reaper. People bowed,
And bared was every head.
They thronged him, that adoring crowd,
They crouched to him for bread
With blessing loud. And, justly proud,
That famished host fed.

Disputation often breeds hatred.
Love begets love.

More in this issue

« Duty   |   Our Talk With Correspondents »

(0 votes)

Florence M. Solomon

Little is known about this author. If you have information about this author to share, please contact me.

Leave a comment

back to top

Get Social