The Harvest Moon by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

[conuly]

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

Link

Comments

[adafrog]

Good, thanks.

[conuly]

:)

[maia]

Thank you for posting this.

(And for all the poetry you post.)

(And for all your posts. I don't comment often enough, but I always read, and appreciate.)

[conuly]

I don't comment often enough

I know the feeling!