Most welcome to the lovers sight, Glitters that pure, emerging light; For prattling poets say, That sweetest is the lovers walk, And tenderest is their murmured talk, Beneath its gentle ray. Bryant.The New Moon.
It is the Harvest moon! On gilded vanes And roofs of villages, on woodland crests And their aërial neighborhoods of nests Deserted, on the curtained window-panes Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes And harvest fields, its mystic splendor rests! Longfellow.The Harvest Moon.
The moon was pallid, but not faint; And beautiful as some fair saint, Serenely moving on her way In hours of trial and dismay. As if she heard the voice of God, Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars, As on the glowing coals and bars, That were to prove her strength, and try Her holiness and purity. Longfellow.The Occultation of Orion.