Tuesday, October 12, 2021

Poem: “The Harvest Moon,” 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 room 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 thing 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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