Harvest Moon


It is the Harvest Moon!  On gilded vanes
   And roofs and villages, on woodland crests
   And their aerial neighborhood 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.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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