This is the Harvest Moon—the yearly sign
Of Providence Divine.
■Seed-time and Harvest, over hill and vale,
Fail not to come, nor ever shall they fail.
The full-orhed Moon is shining in her might,
And men might "harvest" in her bounteous light;
The air is mild and calm,
Breathing delicious balm,
The perfume of a thousand fields of corn,
And luscious fruitage ripe, and orchards fair,
Mixed with the fragrance of autumnal bloom.
Plenty has emptied her full horn:
And now man's labor and long care
Ends in the joyous chorus—Harvest Home!
The Moon looks down with bright, benignant smile,
As though she shared tho bounty man receives.
How vast the gain of toil!
How wide the range of sheaves,
Dotting the uplands, o'er the valleys spread,
And crowning the hill-tops!
From Heaven God sends us wheaten bread,
And still the manna drops.
In plentiful supply, down from above,
That man may live, and know that God is love.
But see! black clouds are gathering in tho sky—
The moon is veiled in darkness, and the wind
Rises into a gale—a storm is nigh!
And now along the horizon a wild flash
Of lightning blazes, followed close behind
By a loud thunder-crash,
And then a sudden rain—
Sudden, but short, for soon the clouds disperse,
And moonlight smiles again—
Moonlight, more beautiful than poet's verse.
The storm has cleared the air,
And freshened Nature, parched by lengthened drought,
Owns her Creator's care.
'Tis twilight, and the eyes of morning greet
The opening day;
The harvest-men are waking, and their feet
Plod on their early way;
The thrush is singing to the morning star,
And soon his buoyant song awakes the lark.
Hark! how the peasants whistle, and I hear
The faithful watch-dog's bark.
Benjamin Goran.