The harvest moon stands on the sea,
Her golden rim’s adrip;
She lights the sheaves on many a lea,
The sails on many a ship;
Glitter, sweet Queen, upon the spray,
And glimmer on the heather;
Right fair thy ray to gild the way
Where lovers walk together.
The red wheat rustles, and the vines
Are purple to the foot,
And true-love, waiting patient, wins
Its blessed time of fruit:
Lamp of all lovers, Lady-moon,
Light these ripe lips together
Which reap alone a harvest sown
Long ere September weather.