Analysis of The Season Of The Harvest

Like a fruit from foreign pastures
The moon hangs above the hills,
There is a sharpness in the breeze
And long gone are the daffodils.

In the eaves abodes are vacant
For the swallows all have flown
Across the earth's fair surface to
Climes which are unknown.

The fruit of the earth has ripened,
Stubble reflects the yield  of corn,
Oats, and barley, which once
En-clothed each field.

It is a time of mellow fruitfulness
As a poet perceived of yore... the
Season of the harvest  and fair
Nature's brimful store.