The Season Of The Harvest Poem by Liam ó Comáin

Like a fruit from foreign pastures
The moon hangs above the hills,
There's 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 enclothed each field.

'Tis a time of mellow fruitfulness
As a poet perceived of yore...
The season of the harvest -
Fair nature's brimful store.