The Harvest Moon. A Poem

HE HARVEST MOON. Sonnet written on the Plain of Shoshone. The sun has gone, around the twilight falls. Dark in the west doth crouch each cedar'd butte, Pale stand the jagged Rockies' distant walls, The earth is hushed, the solemn air is mute. And in the east, where purple skies are clear — The river hath its mighty passage hewn — Round, full and ruddy bright, a golden sphere, Above Shoshone lifts the Harvest Moon. For ages lay untilled this waiting soil, Unchanged this plain beneath a stainless dome, And now the harvest answers to man's toil, This moon looks down, and in each grove a home : Where roamed the savage, or lay battle-slain, Behold the farmer's wealth in sheaves of grain ! ALFRED LAMBOURNE.