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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine—then still part of Massachusetts—on...
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FURTHER READING
Poems about Lanes
A lane of Yellow led the eye (1650)
by Emily Dickinson
As I Walked Out One Evening
by W. H. Auden
Carentan O Carentan
by Louis Simpson
Freeway 280
by Lorna Dee Cervantes
Maiden Lane
by Louise Morgan Sill
The Lane
by Edward Thomas
Poems about the Moon
Anyway
by Richard Siken
Conversation Galante
by T.S. Eliot
If the Owl Calls Again
by John Haines
Lunar Paraphrase
by Wallace Stevens
Moonlight
by Sara Teasdale
Night Baseball
by Michael Blumenthal
The Creation of the Moon
by Anonymous
The Moon in Time Lapse
by David Rivard
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
by Edward Lear
They Lived Enamoured of the Lovely Moon
by Trumbull Stickney
Untitled [and the moon once it stopped was sleeping]
by Erika Meitner
Poems for Thanksgiving
América
by Richard Blanco
Eternity
by William Blake
Fire Dreams
by Carl Sandburg
Grace For a Child
by Robert Herrick
Mass for the Day of St. Thomas Didymus [excerpt]
by Denise Levertov
One day is there of the series
by Emily Dickinson
Signs of the Times
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Te Deum
by Charles Reznikoff
Thanksgiving
by Edgar Guest
Thanksgiving Day
by Lydia Maria Child
Thanksgiving Letter from Harry
by Carl Dennis
The Culture of Glass
by Thylias Moss
The Pumpkin
by John Greenleaf Whittier
The Thanksgivings
by Harriet Maxwell Converse
The Transparent Man
by Anthony Hecht
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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.







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