Oh Sweetest Harvest Time Poem by Peter S. Quinn

Oh sweetest harvest time
Now come to the forest and sing
Its grass is now in prime
And sways to the sounding bring

The distance skies are away
In cloudy drifting spirit
Here is only summer's day
In its blue faraway through lit

Such an art is every flower
In yours fields and ground
With longings to meet the hour
That nowhere else is found

The freshness gardens colors
Are full of hope and try
And while the breeze wind hollers
Birds’ sprit flies up the sky

The far-off mornings fade
Those once were in stars of glisten
When this new dawn is made
And every ones ears in listen

This time is always aspiring dear
Of giving its appeal to the eye
With everything of beauty near
Those never to the senses lie

Oh sweetest harvest time
Now come to the forest and sing
The grass is now in prime
Its swings to the sounding bring