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.
More verses by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
- The Haunted Chamber. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Third)
- Sonnet. On Mrs. Kemble's Readings From Shakespeare
- The Good Part That Shall Not Be Taken Away
- Ultima Thule: My Cathedral
- Ultima Thule: Jugurtha