September

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.