The Harvest Moon

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.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(One of America's first great poets, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882) also produced the first American translation of Dante's Divine Comedy. Longfellow was inducted into the American Poets' Corner in 1993 with Stephen Crane.)