The guerdon of my spring work I behold-
Fields of ripe grain that bends to autumn’s blast –
Wavelets of gold upon a sea of gold;
The hoped-for harvest time has come at last.
Shine down O Sun! upon the gleaming blade
With which the swathes of yellow corn I reap.
And breezes blow: I count upon your aid
To bend the stalks I gather at each sweep.
Peat smoke curls gracefully above the trees;
The sunbeams gleam on many a window –pane;
Sweet is the music that the autumn breeze
Plays on the tree-harps and the reeds of grain.
The sun’s now painting pictures in the West
(Our harvest sunsets are a treat to see),
The weary wind has rocked itself to rest;
And shadows gather o’er the stooks and me.
Silence and night! I gaze a little while
On far dim stars and the moon’s placid face,
Until I fancy I behold the smile
Of happy angels round the Queen of Grace.
‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.