The Harvest Moon

The harvest moon was a day older Than many men had the strength to know– It shone across the tall sugar canes, The wish of those below.

The men were bending to their labor, Following lines down rows and rows, Their strength moving outwards, with no borders, Their silver spades like furniture of the moon– A world of crops, seeds, and symbols.

While the moon was a mere passionsetting, As I, standing high on the hill, held the view. With a shadow falling across the fields, And sung through every root, every blossom.

The harvest moon smiled and mourned, Upon those men below, Whispered sweetly through pale green leaves, And led him into the night below.

—Langston Hughes

• Langston Hughes