ABOVE the hills, a rising amber face
Keeps quiet watch on the descending gloam.
A perfect silence falls about the place;
The weary workers bend their footsteps home
Homewards on their paths, well-wrought, of trodden loam,
That wend along through fertile fields of grain;
The stalks a-bowed beneath the burthen sweet
Of fruit, full-ripe by Autumn’s sun and rain,
Unheeding to the muffled falls of feet—
The foot-falls naught but perfect silence meet
And lost they are high aloft in starry plains,
That over men have hung since days arcane.
And with the cyclic flow of seasons, soon
Will Harvest come, beneath the Harvest Moon.