Let Them Remain Until the Harvest
By Delwin Rees Buckner
THE goodman slept and dreamed of fields of gold—
Had not he sown his land with golden seed?
Each furrowed row was free from noxious weed,
Prepared to yield at least its hundredfold.
But while the sower took his well-earned rest,
By night an enemy brought bags of tares
And subtly scattered them—and unawares—
In that rich soil where they would thrive the best.
The husbandman soon learned the evil plot
The enemy successfully had tried.
“‘But then,’ said he, ‘let both of them remain,
And grow together in the selfsame lot
Until the reaping at the harvest-tide,
When we can burn the tares, and save the grain.’”