It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes <br />And roofs of villages, on woodland crests <br />And their aerial neighborhoods of nests <br />Deserted, on the curtained window-panes <br />Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes <br />And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests! <br />Gone are the birds that were our summer guests, <br />With the last sheaves return the laboring wains! <br />All things are symbols: the external shows <br />Of Nature have their image in the mind, <br />As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves; <br />The song-birds leave us at the summer's close, <br />Only the empty nests are left behind, <br />And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-harvest-moon-3/
