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.
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Submitted by ancomanach on February 17, 2016

Modified on March 05, 2023

27 sec read
112

Quick analysis:

Scheme ABXB XCXC XXXX AXXX
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 510
Words 91
Stanzas 4
Stanza Lengths 4, 4, 4, 4

Liam Ó Comáin

An Irish poet now living in Derry City but originally from Limavady in County Derry in the north of the Island. more…

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    "The Season Of The Harvest" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 28 Mar. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/44500/the-season-of-the-harvest>.

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