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.
Poems by This Author
Evangeline [excerpt]by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water
A Psalm of Lifeby Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Christmas Bellsby Henry Wadsworth Longfellow I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Haunted Housesby Henry Wadsworth Longfellow All houses wherein men have lived and died
Hymn to the Nightby Henry Wadsworth Longfellow I heard the trailing garments of the Night