58 Harvest Poems to Share the Delight of Achievement

Harvest season is a time of abundance and reflection, and what better way to capture its essence than through poetry?

In this article, we explore a collection of beautiful and inspiring harvest poems that celebrate the bountiful harvest and the changing seasons.

From classic works by renowned poets to contemporary pieces, these poems about harvest offer a glimpse into the beauty and richness of this time of year.

So, whether you’re a poetry lover or simply looking to get inspired, these harvest poems are sure to leave you feeling grateful for the harvest and the wonders of nature.

Famous Harvest Poems

Here, we present some of the famous poems about harvest by renowned poets that continue to be celebrated for their beauty and depth.

1. Paradise Seed

by Kathleen Raine

Where is the seed

Of the tree felled,

Of the forest burned,

Or living root

Under ash and cinders?

From woven bud

What last leaf strives

Into life, last

Shrivelled flower?

Is fruit of our harvest,

Our long labour

Dust to the core?

To what far, fair land

Borne on the wind

What winged seed

Or spark of fire

From holocaust

To kindle a star?

2. The Products of My Farm Are These

by Emily Dickinson

The Products of my Farm are these

Sufficient for my Own

And here and there a Benefit

Unto a Neighbor’s Bin.

With Us, ’tis Harvest all the Year

For when the Frosts begin

We just reverse the Zodiac

And fetch the Acres in.

3. Theme in Yellow

by Carl Sandburg

I spot the hills

With yellow balls in autumn.

I light the prairie cornfields

Orange and tawny gold clusters

And I am called pumpkins.

On the last of October

When dusk is fallen

Children join hands

And circle round me

Singing ghost songs

And love to the harvest moon;

I am a jack-o’-lantern

With terrible teeth

And the children know

I am fooling.

4. All Hallows

by Louise Gluck

Even now this landscape is assembling.

The hills darken.

The oxen

Sleep in their blue yoke,

The fields having been

Picked clean, the sheaves

Bound evenly and piled at the roadside

Among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness

Of harvest or pestilence

And the wife leaning out the window

With her hand extended, as in payment,

And the seeds

Distinct, gold, calling

Come here

Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

5. Portrait

by Louise Bogan

She has no need to fear the fall

Of harvest from the laddered reach

Of orchards, nor the tide gone ebbing

From the steep beach.

Nor hold to pain’s effrontery

Her body’s bulwark, stern and savage,

Nor be a glass, where to forsee

Another’s ravage.

What she has gathered, and what lost,

She will not find to lose again.

She is possessed by time, who once

Was loved by men.

6. The Harvest Moon

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes

And roofs of villages, on woodland crests

And their aerial neighborhoods of nests

Deserted, on the curtained window-panes

Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes

And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!

Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,

With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!

All things are symbols: the external shows

Of Nature have their image in the mind,

As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;

The song-birds leave us at the summer’s close,

Only the empty nests are left behind,

And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

7. Hear a Knock on Meadow’s Door?

by Anonymous

It is the Harvestautumn’s most clever harvest moon

parades above scratchy hay bales

September shows us October’s nearness

Kansas and Nebraska cool off wonderfully

harvest moon love of September formulates plan

hear a knock on meadow’s door?

Inspirational Harvest Poems

In this collection of inspirational poems about harvest, we explore the different ways in which poets have celebrated the harvest season and its themes of gratitude, renewal, and hope.

1. Come Ye Thankful People Come

by Henry Alford

Come ye thankful people come,

Raise the song of harvest home!

All is safely gathered in,

Ere the winter storms begin;

God our Maker, doth provide

For our wants to be supplied:

Come to God’s own temple, come,

Raise the song of harvest home.

All the world is God’s own field

Fruit unto his praise to yield;

Wheat and tares together sown

Unto joy or sorrow grown;

First the blade, and then the ear,

Then the full corn shall appear;

Lord of the harvest! grant that we

Wholesome grain and pure may be.

For the Lord our God shall come,

And shall take his harvest home;

From his field shall in that day

All offenses purge away,

Give his angels charge at last

In the fire the tares to cast;

But the fruitful ears to store

In his garner evermore.

Even so, Lord, quickly come,

Bring thy final harvest home;

Gather thou thy people in,

Free from sorrow, free from sin,

There, forever purified,

in thy presence to abide;

Come, with all thine angels, come,

Raise the glorious harvest home.

2. After Harvest

by William Stanley Braithwaite

Faint is the speech of the tired heart

To the call of dreams replying,

When hope wends home across the fields

Where the rose o’ the year is dying.

O weary head and heart and hands

Look up where the sun is dying —

Love leads you home across the fields

To the call of dreams replying.

3. The Feast-time of The Year

by Dora Read Goodale

This is the feast-time of the year,

When plenty pours her wine of cheer,

And even humble boards may spare

To poorer poor a kindly share.

While bursting barns and granaries know

A richer, fuller overflow.

And they who dwell in golden ease

Blest without toil, yet toil to please.

4. Harvest

by Kathleen Raine

Day is the hero’s shield,

Achilles’ field,

The light days are the angels.

We the seed.

Against eternal light and gorgon’s face

Day is the shield

And we the grass

Native to fields of iron, and skies of brass.

5. It’s Always Harvest Time

by Deborah Ann Belka

Not just at harvest time,

do we need to have a reason

we can plant seeds of hope

in and out, of every season.

We can reap souls to Jesus,

no matter the time of year

it doesn’t have to be Autumn

harvest time, is always here.

Seeds of faith can be planted,

into the hearts of everyone

whether under snowy covers

or the warm blanket of the sun.

We can gather in the lost,

bring back a wandering soul

it doesn’t have to be Fall

for the harvest, God controls.

It’s always harvest time,

we don’t need to have a reason

we can sow seeds of eternal hope

in and out, of every season!

Harvest Poems for Church

From psalms to hymns, these Christian harvest poems offer a window into the rich traditions and enduring values of the church.

1. October Reflections

by Linda Alice Fowler

October approaches with sharp bursting color

that awes senses with majesty.

Cool winds blow with vitality

and I become God’s most reverent extoller.

October conducts a symphony of feeling

that uplifts and inspires my heart.

I implore my soul to impart

my full obedience in prayerful kneeling.

October caresses the spirit and essence

of my being, and I am humbled.

From earthly existence tumbled

a moment, I humbly bow in acquiescence.

October promises the coming of the harvest

that this year’s scattered sowing brings.

The worker’s voice in the field sings

impassioned praises to Him for this bounty blessed.

My heart is filled with the miracle of it all,

and the divine revelation

that I am of His creation.

I pray I transform and worthy of His Last Call.

2. Harvest Moon

by Ann Foster

Gather in the field, collect up the harvest,

stay together and be aware.

Do not stare into the night, too long…

Get up with the dawn, work early.

Work all day and know that all is well.

Do not fear what you cannot see.

That is not important. That is how it should be.

Keep your eyes on the seeds you have sewn.

The crops are ready, bring them in.

They will keep you through the winter,

and feed your family, and your kin.

While…

There will be some that need more help.

They did not plan as well.

Fear not, it is a gift, that you have been given;

an abundance of both heart, and home.

Blessings on your life, your family, your friends.

Share in all things. Love thy neighbor, as you would yourself…

Your table will be bountiful, your home will have no leaks,

Your children will not go hungry in the famine of recklessness.

Be cheered. Be happy. Be at peace.

Love, beyond your limits,

and you will know no bounds…

3. In Silence

by Regina McIntosh

Sighing, gales vibrate, release the dance

Between avid oak in crimson hues –

Delicate golds, amber and carroty red

Maples delicate muse, autumn stillness, hush

Erasing the summer, quieting…

The sunlight whispers raining down

In silence, pretty secrets

Perfect reminiscences

Whispering, gentle breeze, reflecting the shadows

Brought to life, silhouettes breathless, echoing

Peace inspired by the embrace of vibrant colors

Inspirations so alive, thriving in pulsating lights

Saying a quick goodbye to the past

Where still, cool waters smile liquid laughter

Stirring the promises entwined

Knit together like prayers

Prayed by hearts

Who know that this season, harvest time, autumn

Brings wisdom, insights into the wonders murmured

Like endless pleas for the kindness, the creativity

His hand brings to the world He crafted from naught

Spoken into existence by His voice, His utterance

Expressions of beautiful, awakened

To the miracle of creation, the design

Brought to life by His light

The wonder of His thought

Because I know Him, my Savior, my Maker

Autumn feels like the imagination adorned

With blushing tones of compassion, charity

Sensitive words lasting in pages, scriptures

Portraying the riches of His splendor – His mystery

The answer to every prayer lies there

Amid the verses, the poetry and promise

Like falling leaves, in silence

His love abides, grace inspired…

By the One I know as real love, real hope, real life

Savior of the world – redeemer of the heart and soul

Deliverer of the spirit who looks to Him and believes

In a love that is alive and can only be received

By those who know Him intimately, trusting

His gift of grace – His book’s answers

His forever in heaven

His eternity, the blessing

Freedom, forgiveness…

A reason to listen – in silence,

To His guidance!

4. Harvest

by Christopher Grieves

A prayer for those

Whose lives are thin

And shelves devoid of

Bread and tin.

A stronger prayer

For those who stand

With more than enough

In every hand.

For in God’s Kingdom

Love is King

And generosity

The trendy thing.

There is no lack

Or chance despair.

No deprivation.

No hunger there.

In God’s town..

No cupboards bare.

No hungry child.

No shadow there.

In the City of Angel’s

No fears you’ll find

For hope and joy

Are all refined..

..by hands and feet

Of those who love

And serve the one

true God above.

So come on people!

Come and see

What God can do through you.

Through me.

It’s Harvest

And in the Autumn glow

The words of truth are:

“Reap” and “sow”

For heaven need not

be a ‘distant place’

If we love our neighbour,

At this time.

In this space.

So here’s my prayer;

Dear God above..

Open our hearts

Through the power of Your love

And help us to see, every moment we live,

With the eyes of Your generous Spirit.

Teach us kindness.

Teach us to give.

For the path may be narrow

But our hearts can be wide.

Under God’s season of plenty..

..and blessing

No-one can hide.

And in closing I ask

That I never walk by.

That I look that God given task

Square in the eye.

Keep me soft in the heart

Never letting it harden.

That the Eden we seek

Is right here in this garden.

5. Harvest Time

by Vee Bdosa

There are no roots to see, not with our eyes,

that stretch from earth, umbilically below;

not even to the sun, to realize,

but there must be a chord we do not know;

Are we not on a fruit, still ripening?

Perhaps we are the nectar from the tree,

Awaiting harvest time’s great siphoning

When all are ripened; it’s our time to be.

And we will be plucked from the path we’re on

Around the sun, into a vat and pressed;

The vintage of Apopolictic Dawn,

Revealing vast unknowns, we’ve never guessed.

Then all our stuff of non-sense; all we thought,

Ferments into the past, already bought.

Funny Harvest Poems

In this collection of interesting harvest poems, we explore the lighter side of the season through the eyes of some of the world’s most playful and witty poets.

1. Harvest Perch

by Sara Kendrick

Man in the moon is

Fishing for seasonal fish

From the harvest perch

2. Harvest Time

by Sotto Poet

young frogs quacking loud

they have grown thick and ugly

It’s rice harvest time

3. Harvest Festival

by Katherine Stella

aerial viewing

outstretched crows flying frenzy

harvest festival

4. Harvest

by Richard Breese

a local farmers cabbages

exceeded county tonnages

the judge said hey joe

you got any mo

my trucks theyre all wreckages.

5. Maybe Harvest “Moonshine”

by Marty Owens

Apparitional.

Phantom moon on “Hic” loween.

Mind can see those ghosts.

(Holiday Version)

Apparitional.

Phantom moon on Halloween.

Mind plays tricks on you.

Short Harvest Poems

These short poems about harvest offer a glimpse into the wonder and bounty of the earth, and remind us of the power of brevity in expressing deep emotions and ideas.

1. The Last Laugh

by John Betjeman

I made hay while the sun shone.

My work sold.

Now, if the harvest is over

And the world cold,

Give me the bonus of laughter

As I lose hold.

2. Harvest Moon

by Yosa Buson

Harvest moon–

called at his house,

he was digging potatoes.

3. Strike Churl

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Strike, churl; hurl, cheerless wind, then; heltering hail

May’s beauty massacre and wisp?d wild clouds grow

Out on the giant air; tell Summer No,

Bid joy back, have at the harvest, keep Hope pale.

4. September

by Hilaire Belloc

Lo! a ripe sheaf of many golden days

Gleaned by the year in autumn’s harvest ways,

With here and there, blood-tinted as an ember,

Some crimson poppy of a late delight

Atoning in its splendor for the flight

Of summer blooms and joys

This is September.

5. Snow-Flakes

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare

Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

Silent and soft and slow

Descends the snow.

6. Blessing

by John Montague

A feel of warmth in this place.

In winter air, a scent of harvest.

No form of prayer is needed,

When by sudden grace attended.

Naturally, we fall from grace.

Mere humans, we forget what light

Led us, lonely, to this place.

7. Tenchi Tenno

by Ogura Hyakunin Isshu

Coarse the rush-mat roof

Sheltering the harvest-hut

Of the autumn rice-field;–

And my sleeves are growing wet

With the moisture dripping through.

8. As I Watch’d The Ploughman Ploughing

by Walt Whitman

AS I watch’d the ploughman ploughing,

Or the sower sowing in the fields—or the harvester harvesting,

I saw there too, O life and death, your analogies:

(Life, life is the tillage, and Death is the harvest according.)

Long Harvest Poems

In this collection of long poetries about harvest, we explore the themes of gratitude, abundance, and reflection through the world’s most talented and expressive poets.

1. Not Harvest Thanksgiving

by Dominique Webb

I do so love harvest thanksgiving,

That time of year which celebrates agriculture,

When church flips from being god-centred,

To remembering farmers and good food manufacture.

It’s not an Armenian or Amish allusion,

‘Cos tins are given no problem;

Natural remedies aren’t primed as better,

Than medicines, to the mind and body superior.

As a child who regretfully attended church,

I thought on that day of poverty and Christian giving:

That their offer was kind of a respectable food bank,

A silent redistribution of wealth, income and living.

No food bank is respectable, of course,

But they can channel wealth efficiently and appropriately;

And that the Church offers such for just one day,

Should be celebrated as a positive sign most definitely.

God is sometimes just such an abstraction,

Academically, he’s for the objective mind;

He’s not comforting when your needs are just so real:

Physical, emotional, psychological: he can be so unkind.

When you just need a meal on the table,

And need it supplied by someone else,

Whether by government, food bank or church,

It’s a person that’s there, not divine impulse.

I thought it was moral to impose that on believers,

As a kid who just so wanted to talk and shoot,

About real mechanisms, real structures and methods,

Which made life’s systems, dynamics, art and roots.

Being grateful for food, diet and health,

Eclipses salvation humility and responce;

Eternal purpose lays as distant and non-tangible,

To people and belongings which have an unimpeachable force.

Farmers need to be remembered, given relevance,

For their labour, dedication and sheer love of the job;

It’s that occupation and training which ensures,

Our basic daily needs are met not just with contours.

The harvest basket every year means to me hope,

Nourishment for those who starve and scrape;

Church wealth rides so high and mighty on average,

That this real examination is something to advocate.

2. The Corn Song

by John Greenleaf Whittier

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard!

Heap high the golden corn!

No richer gift has Autumn poured

From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean

The apple from the pine,

The orange from its glossy green,

The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift

Our rugged vales bestow,

To cheer us when the storm shall drift

Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers

Our ploughs their furrows made,

While on the hills the sun and showers

Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o’er hill and plain

Beneath the sun of May,

And frightened from our sprouting grain

The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June

Its leaves grew green and fair,

And waved in hot midsummer’s noon

Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with autumn’s moonlit eves,

Its harvest-time has come,

We pluck away the frosted leaves,

And bear the treasure home.

There, richer than the fabled gift

Apollo showered of old,

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,

And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk

Around their costly board;

Give us the bowl of samp and milk,

By homespun beauty poured!

Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth

Sends up its smoky curls,

Who will not thank the kindly earth

And bless our farmer girls?

Then shame on all the proud and vain,

Whose folly laughs to scorn

The blessing of our hardy grain,

Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,

Let mildew blight the rye,

Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,

The wheat-field to the fly:

But let the good old crop adorn

The hills our fathers trod;

Still let us, for His golden corn,

Send up our thanks to God!

3. Harvest Time

by John Jay Chapman

Behold, the harvest is at hand;

And thick on the encircling hills

The sheaves like an encampment stand,

Making a martial fairy-land

That half the landscape fills.

The plains in colors brightly blent

Are burnished by the standing grain

That runs across a continent.

In sheets of gold or silver stain

Or red as copper from the mine,

The oats, the barley, and the buckwheat shine.

Autumn has pitched his royal tent,

And set his banner in the field;

Where blazes every ornament

That beamed in an heraldic shield.

He spreads his carpets from the store

Of stuffs the richest burghers wore,

When velvet-robed, and studded o’er

With gems, they faced their Emperor.

A wind is in the laughing grain

That bends to dodge his rough caress,

Knowing the rogue will come again

To frolic with its loveliness.

And in the highways drifts a stream

Of carts, of cattle, and of men;

While scythes in every meadow gleam,

And Adam sweats again.

In the young orchard forms are seen

With throats thrown open to the breeze,

To reap the rye that lies between;

And sickles hang on apple-trees,

Half hidden in the glossy leaves,

And pails beside the reapers lie;

While sturdy yokels toss the sheaves,

And hats are cocked and elbows ply,

And blackbirds rise to cloud the sky

In swarms that chatter as they fly.

From field to field each shady lane

Is strown and traced with wisps of hay,

Where gates lie open to the wain

That creaks upon its toiling way.

And little children, dumb with pride,

Upon the rocking mountain ride,

While anxious parents warn;

And farm-boys guide the lazy team

Till it shall stand beneath the beam

That spans the gaping barn.

The harvest to its cavern sinks,

While shafts of sunlight probe the chinks

And fumes of incense rise.

Then, as the farmers turn the latch,

Good-natured Autumn smiles to watch

The triumph in their eyes.

His gifts, from many a groaning load,

Are heaved and packed, and wheeled and stowed

By gnomes that hoard the prize.

The grist of a celestial mill,

Which man has harnessed to his will,

In one bright torrent falls to fill

The greedy granaries.

Beneath that annual rain of gold

Kingdoms arise, expand, decay;

Philosophers their mind unfold

And poets sing, and pass away.

Forever turns the winnowing fan:

It runs with an eternal force,

As run the planets in their course

Behind the life of man.

Little we heed that silent power,

Save as the gusty chaff is whirled,

When Autumn triumphs for an hour,

And spills his riches on the world.

4. John Barleycorn

by Robert Burns

There was three kings into the east,

Three kings both great and high,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough’d him down,

Put clods upon his head,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,

And show’rs began to fall;

John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surpris’d them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came,

And he grew thick and strong;

His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears,

That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter’d mild,

When he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head

Show’d he began to fail.

His colour sicken’d more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They’ve taen a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,

And cudgell’d him full sore;

They hung him up before the storm,

And turned him o’er and o’er.

They filled up a darksome pit

With water to the brim;

They heaved in John Barleycorn,

There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,

To work him farther woe;

And still, as signs of life appear’d,

They toss’d him to and fro.

They wasted, o’er a scorching flame,

The marrow of his bones;

But a miller us’d him worst of all,

For he crush’d him between two stones.

And they hae taen his very heart’s blood,

And drank it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,

Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,

Of noble enterprise;

For if you do but taste his blood,

‘Twill make your courage rise

‘Twill make a man forget his woe;

‘Twill heighten all his joy;

‘Twill make the widow’s heart to sing,

Tho’ the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne’er fail in old Scotland!

5. After Apple-Picking

by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night,

The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.

I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight

I got from looking through a pane of glass

I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough

And held against the world of hoary grass.

It melted, and I let it fall and break.

But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell,

And I could tell

What form my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and disappear,

Stem end and blossom end,

And every fleck of russet showing dear.

My instep arch not only keeps the ache,

It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.

I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin

The rumbling sound

Of load on load of apples coming in.

For I have had too much

Of apple-picking: I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,

Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.

For all

That struck the earth,

No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,

Went surely to the cider-apple heap

As of no worth.

One can see what will trouble

This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

Were he not gone,

The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his

Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,

Or just some human sleep.

6. When The Frost is on The Punkin

by James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,

And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,

And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;

But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still

A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—

O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! …

I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be

As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—

I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Harvest Poems That Rhyme

Poems about harvest with rhyme capture the beauty of autumn’s bounty and celebrate the hard work of farmers and gardeners. These poems use rhyme to convey the joy and warmth of the harvest season.

1. Color in The Wheat

by Hamlin Garland

Like liquid gold the wheat field lies,

A marvel of yellow and russet and green,

That ripples and runs, that floats and flies,

With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen,

That play in the golden hair of a girl,—

A ripple of amber—a flare

Of light sweeping after—a curl

In the hollows like swirling feet

Of fairy waltzers, the colors run

To the western sun

Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.

Broad as the fleckless, soaring sky,

Mysterious, fair as the moon-led sea,

The vast plain flames on the dazzled eye

Under the fierce sun’s alchemy.

The slow hawk stoops

To his prey in the deeps;

The sunflower droops

To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps—

Then swirling in dazzling links and loops,

A riot of shadow and shine,

A glory of olive and amber and wine,

To the westering sun the colors run

Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.

O glorious land! My western land,

Outspread beneath the setting sun!

Once more amid your swells, I stand,

And cross your sod-lands dry and dun.

I hear the jocund calls of men

Who sweep amid the ripened grain

With swift, stern reapers; once again

The evening splendor floods the plain,

The crickets’ chime

Makes pauseless rhyme,

And toward the sun,

The colors run

Before the wind’s feet

In the wheat!

2. The Harvest of The Sea

by John Mccrae

The earth grows white with harvest; all day long

The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves

Her web of silence o’er the thankful song

Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.

3. In Due Season

by John Mccrae

If night should come and find me at my toil,

When all Life’s day I had, tho’ faintly, wrought,

And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil

Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught

If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,

Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?

“Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand

Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone.

“

4. The Potato Harvest

by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne

Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky

Washing the ridge; a clamour of crows that fly

In from the wide flats where the spent tides mourn

To yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn;

A line of grey snake-fence, that zigzags by

A pond and cattle; from the homestead nigh

The long deep summonings of the supper horn.

Black on the ridge, against that lonely flush,

A cart, and stoop-necked oxen; ranged beside

Some barrels; and the day-worn harvest-folk,

Here emptying their baskets, jar the hush

With hollow thunders. Down the dusk hillside

Lumbers the wain; and day fades out like smoke.

5. Divine Epigrams: On Tthe Miracle of The Multiplied Loaves

by Richard Crashaw

See here an easy feast that knows no wound,

That under hunger’s teeth will needs be sound;

A subtle harvest of unbounded bread,

What would ye more? Here food itself is fed.

6. Harvest

by Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz

Sweet, sweet, sweet,

Is the wind’s song,

Astir in the rippled wheat

All day long.

It hath the brook’s wild gayety,

The sorrowful cry of the sea.

Oh hush and hear!

Sweet, sweet and clear,

Above the locust’s whirr

And hum of bee

Rises that soft, pathetic harmony.

In the meadow-grass

The innocent white daisies blow,

The dandelion plume doth pass

Vaguely to and fro,—

The unquiet spirit of a flower

That hath too brief an hour.

Now doth a little cloud all white,

Or golden bright,

Drift down the warm, blue sky;

And now on the horizon line,

Where dusky woodlands lie,

A sunny mist doth shine,

Like to a veil before a holy shrine,

Concealing, half-revealing

Things Divine.

Sweet, sweet, sweet,

Is the wind’s song,

Astir in the rippled wheat

All day long.

That exquisite music calls

The reaper everywhere—

Life and death must share,

The golden harvest falls.

So doth all end,—

Honored Philosophy,

Science and Art,

The bloom of the heart;—

Master, Consoler, Friend,

Make Thou the harvest of our days

To fall within Thy ways.

7. A Harvest Song

by Marianne Farningham

The corn waves on a thousand hills,

Reflected in the sparkling rills;

The earth has had its meed of rain,

The sun has spread its warmth again.