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.
- The Harvest Moon
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow