The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.
So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keepA kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!
And all the moonlit cows and all the
Stare up at her petrified, while she
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and
Closer and closer like the end of the world.
Till the gold fields of stiff
Cry `We are ripe, reap us!' and the
Sweat from the melting hills.
