Classic Poem

The twilight ends; the last faint crimson stain
Has faded from the west; the deep blue sky,
Deeper and darker grows, and once again
God's lamps are lighted in the dome on high.
Above yon distant swell, where trailing clouds
Hung low and black at noon,
Now, round and red, from out their torn white shrouds.
Steps forth the harvest moon.

Thus she came forth last night, thus will she come
The next night and the next. Oh, magic time!
The full moon wanes not at the harvest home,
And night's grand poem flows in even rhyme.
Silent the thresher stands, where hills of gold,
Heaped high on earth's shorn breast,
Loom in the moonlight. Summer's tale is told;
The sickle lies in rest.

The night has wondrous voices. At my door
I sit and listen to its many tones.
The wind comes through the trees with muffled roar,
And round the moonlit gables sadly moans.
The raccoon scouts among the stricken corn
With disappointed cry;
A dismal owl sends out his note forlorn;
One whippowil sings nigh.

And there is other music. All the grass
Is peopled with a crowd of tiny things;
We see them not, yet crush them as we pass.
These sing all night, and clap their puny wings;
Beneath my very feet calls clear and strong
A cricket, slyly hid,
While at my elbow — well I know his song —
Rattles a katydid.

Poor, puny things! your gala nears its end.
A subtle change steals over vale and hill;
There comes a hint of autumn in the wind
That moans about the roof; the nights are chill;
Short and yet shorter grows each passing day; —
The year is waxing old.
The frost waits in the north, not far away —
The summer's tale is told.