The perfect, all resplendent moon looks down,
From cloudless realms of blue, upon a scene
Most marvellous,—Earth in her harvest-gown,—
A golden garment, hemmed by darkish green,
Moved by the wandering winds that drink the sweet
Of new-mown clover-fields and tasselled corn;
The sound thereof is as when lovers meet,
And whisper gladness out of hearts love-lorn;—
Her royal robe, to which the world is clinging,
On which the moon and sun smile with delight,
Of which all nature’s minstrels now are singing
In varied melodies, by day and night,—
Earth’s great achievement, loveliest and best,
The golden harvest of the Middle West.