Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Harvest Moon

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.