Harvest Moon

I

Globed in Heav'n's tree of azure, golden mellow

As some round apple hung

High in hesperian boughs, thou hangest yellow

The branch-like mists among:

Within thy light a sunburnt youth, named Health,

Rests 'mid the tasseled shocks, the tawny stubble;

And by his side, clad on with rustic wealth

Of field and farm, beneath thy amber bubble,

A nut-brown maid, Content, sits smiling still:

While through the quiet trees,

The mossy rocks, the grassy hill,

Thy silvery spirit glides to yonder mill,

Around whose wheel the breeze

And shimmering ripples of the water play,

As, by their mother, little children may.

II

Sweet spirit of the moon, who walkest,—lifting

Exhaustless on thy arm,

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