John F. McCullagh (09/28/1954 / Flushing)
The corn is crowned with flowers
as harvest's end draw near.
Men and Women, Lads and maids
all raise a rousing cheer.
Pile high the wagon with the fruits
of Ceres Golden Horn.
The fortune of the fields is ours
for now is Harvest Home.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Harvest Home by John F. McCullagh )
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