Oh come the harvest,
the sickle fallen,
strawmen gathered,
to bid the summer farewell.

Come the hour,
the grains are calling,
hearts sun weathered
to where the sickle last fell.

the blood of the seasons,
alive within us;
winter come,
our fires burning bright,
the fire,
of the harvest,
rising up,
to illuminate the night.

Oh come the harvest,
ravens gathered,
at the edge,
of our summers fated wheel.

Come the hour,
the sickle risen,
there amongst,
the fallen of the fields.

the blood of the seasons,
alive within us;
winter come,
our fires burning bright,
the fire,
of the harvest,
rising up,
to illuminate the night.

In the hour
of the dying sun,
a song of sorrows
past is sung.
To bid farewell
with autumn flames,
To alight the winter,
when the summer wanes.

Oh come the harvest,
beauty gathered,
held close at the edge,
of day and night.

Come the hour,
the sickle risen,
biding farewell to,
the season of the light.

the blood of the seasons,
alive within us;
winter come,
our fires burning bright,
the fire,
of the harvest,
rising up,
to illuminate the night.