The Harvest Moon

The Harvest Moon, that now is high, Descending, lo! They slowly dim, Her golden line in Western sky, Where clouds to twilight faintly swim.

The corn is gold, the sheaves are piled, The air is sweet with fragrant dew, And peace rest sweetly on the wild, As though the whole world bathed anew.

Let willow bronze its flowing stream, Let skies grow lusciously vast; This moon, like a distant dream, Might chase along the night so fast.

• John Clare