My Dreams, My Works, Must Wait Till After Hell
I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can give me any word but Wait,
The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in;
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To honey and bread old purity could love.
For everything there is a season
If we do not sow in spring and reap in summer, what will we have the autumn and winter? And if we don’t eat the harvests we stored during the cold months, won’t they just rot?
We make ourselves unhappy when we muddle the seasons. Look again. The harvest in the store is still there. There is no need to eat it all at once. But eat.