It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.
The Harvest Moon, by Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow. Many months ago, I expected to have a baby today. Instead, I thank that little tiny person for the great and powerful lessons she taught this mama, and will gaze on this harvest moon with wonder for the unexplainable, unimaginable power of the universe.