Oh ye who tell of the harvest moon
Above the waving grain,
Oh ye who tell of the silent moon
That glitters across the plain.
Oh ye who tell of the mountain moon
That lifts each peak and crag,
Oh ye who tell of the ocean moon
Where the long, black shadows drag.
Oh ye who tell of the silver moon
In wanton ecstasy,
Ye never tell of the fairest moon--
The fairest moon to me.
’Tis well the tale of the crescent moon
Above the lake-side pine,
And good is your song of the circling moon
Where snowy meadows shine.
And fair’s the lilt of the gleaming moon
Where dazzling rapids leap:
For wondrous bright is the fairy sight
Of the soul of a World asleep.
But a waning moon, just half a moon,
With a rough and ragged rim,
And a mystic light that makes the night
All bright but doubly dim....
Low down, low down in a starry sky,
O’er the shift of a swinging sea
With a mellow fold o’ silver gold,
Reveals my moon to me.