Quotes & Sayings About Harvest Moon

On this night of the Harvest Moon. They tossed bones into the "Bone Fire" and asked the yellow moon to shine its protection over them. (Today we call it a "Bonfire") — Nancy B. Brewer

The stranded Daoine Sidhe knights of the Dark Court gathered at the ring of ancient standing stones under the pale light of the harvest moon.
Whenever the Daoine Sidhe gathered, they raised the natural energies of the world around them. — Thea Harrison

The harvest moon has no innocence, like the slim quarter moon of a spring twilight, nor has it the silver penny brilliance of the moon that looks down upon the resorts of summer time. Wise, ripe, and portly, like an old Bacchus, it waxes night after night. — Donald C. Peattie

Marriage, which has been the bourne of so many narratives, is still a great beginning, as it was to Adam and Eve, who kept their honey-moon in Eden, but had their first little one among the thorns and thistles of the wilderness. It is still the beginning of the home epic - the gradual conquest or irremediable loss of that complete union which make the advancing years a climax, and age the harvest of sweet memories in common. — George Eliot

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers. — Carl Sandburg

I shook my head. "The men in green all forsook England a hundred years ago," said I, speaking as seriously as he had done. "And not even in Hay Lane, or the fields about it, could you find a trace of them. I don't think either summer or harvest, or winter moon, will ever shine on their revels more." Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her — Charlotte Bronte

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. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Later in the afternoon the sun went down with a riotous swirl of gold and varying blues and scarlets, and left the dry, rustling night of Western summer. Dexter watched from the veranda of the Golf Club, watched the even overlap of the waters in the little wind, silver molasses under the harvest-moon. Then the moon held a finger to her lips and the lake became a clear pool, pale and quiet. Dexter put on his bathing-suit and swam out to the farthest raft, where he stretched dripping on the wet canvas of the springboard. There was a fish jumping and a star shining and the lights around the lake were gleaming. Over on a dark peninsula a piano was playing the songs of last summer and of summers before that - songs from "Chin-Chin" and "The Count of Luxemburg" and "The Chocolate Soldier" - and because the sound of a piano over a stretch of water had always seemed beautiful to Dexter he lay perfectly quiet and listened. — F Scott Fitzgerald

Scientific knowledge has taught [humans] much since the days of the Deluge, and it will increase their power still further. And, as for the great necessities of Fate, against which there is no help, they will learn to endure them with resignation. Of what use to them is the mirage of wide acres in the moon, whose harvest no one has ever yet seen? As honest smallholders on this earth they will know how to cultivate their plot in such a way that it supports them. By withdrawing their expectations from the other world and concentrating all their liberated energies into their life on earth, they will probably succeed in achieving a state of things in which life will become tolerable for everyone and civilization no longer oppressive to anyone. Then, with one of our fellow-unbelievers, they will be able to say without regret: 'We leave Heaven to the angels and the sparrows. — Sigmund Freud

The antimony on their features was set on silvery fire by the intensity of the moon. And their bodies, solid and quivering and half-naked, were like ancient memories of a mystical time without boundaries when it was possible to enter the consciousness of a cornseed and foretell the harvest to come. — Ben Okri

I seen but little of this world,
Except my corner of it;
The city never drew me,
For I knew I could not love it.
What I loved best was watching
The garden getting ripe
And a pouch of sweet tobacco
And my old cob pipe.
What I loved best was a harvest moon
Before a frosty morn
And lamplight in the barn lot
And them long, straight rows of corn.
I was plain and country;
That's where it starts and ends,
But nobody loved her family more,
Or treasured more her friends.
I loved the changing seasons,
And looking for life's reasons,
And honey in the comb,
and home. — Richard Peck

Without a time for growing, you could never have a feast. If there is no growth, what are you going to feast on? At the time of the feast, the people of Israel brought their riches - cows, lambs, grapes, all the produce which came from the growth. The feast of tabernacles, especially, was a feast for the enjoyment of the harvest. The Lord said that we must come together in His presence and enjoy the harvest - that is a feast. The feast is the result of growing, and this growing is very much related to the moon, the church. If we don't have the church, we lack the element of the feast. Very few Christians have the feast because they don't have the moon. They don't have the full enjoyment of Christ as a feast because they do not have the church. We need the church to appoint the seasons for growing and feasting. — Witness Lee

The hot humid day had followed the sun westward, leaving a cool midnight breeze. The sky, God's special gift to the sailor, was free of city lights and urban pollution. Placed on display, all of creation was set on the night's canopy of blue-black velvet adorned with the glistening diamond dust of billions of lesser stars and the sparkling one-point diamonds of the major stars.

A deep golden harvest moon hung low on the eastern horizon. Its glow cut a pewter path from moon to ship across shifting liquid swells rolling forward to meet the Farnley's bow. The bow, rocking gently, rose, then floated gently down to embrace the next swell. — Larry Laswell

Shine and shimmer my Harvest Moon,
illuminate the shadows in the sky. — A.F. Stewart

Read the lyrics to N. Young's Harvest Moon and you'll know. — N. Young

And Fall, with her yeller harvest moon and the hills growin' brown and golden under a sinkin' sun. — Roy Bean

The merry-go-round was running, yes, but ...
It was running backward.
The small calliope inside the carousel machinery rattle-snapped its nervous-stallion shivering drums, clashed its harvest-moon cymbals, toothed its castanets, and throatily choked and sobbed its reeds, whistles, and baroque flutes. — Ray Bradbury

And aye, beside her stalks her amarous knight!
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,
And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,
His hindward charms glean an unearthly white,
Ah! thus thro' broken clouds at night's high Noon
Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-moon! — Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Harvest Moon glows round and bold,
In pumpkin shades outlined in gold,
Illuminating eerie forms,
Unnatural as a candied corn.
Beware what dare crawls up your sleeve,
For 'tis the night called Hallows Eve. — Richelle E. Goodrich

was flying by, and if she couldn't find a way to forge bonds between her granddaughters, Mamaw knew that come September, Sea Breeze would be sold, the girls would scatter again, and she'd be sitting on the dock howling at the harvest moon. The previous May, Mamaw had invited her three granddaughters - Dora, Carson, and Harper - to celebrate her eightieth birthday at Sea Breeze. She'd had, however, an ulterior motive. In the fall, Marietta was putting Sea Breeze on the market and moving into an assisted — Mary Alice Monroe

To live for others as a definite self-conscious aim was not his creed. It was not the basis of his creed. When he says, 'Forgive your enemies,' it is not for the sake of the enemy, but for one's own sake that he says so, and because love is more beautiful than hate. In his own entreaty to the young man, 'Sell all that thou hast and give to the poor,' it is not of the state of the poor that he is thinking but of the soul of the young man, the soul that wealth was marring. In his view of life he is one with the artist who knows that by the inevitable law of self-perfection, the poet must sing, and the sculptor think in bronze, and the painter make the world a mirror for his moods, as surely and as certainly as the hawthorn must blossom in spring, and the corn turn to gold at harvest-time, and the moon in her ordered wanderings change from shield to sickle, and from sickle to shield. — Oscar Wilde

It could be the full moon closest to the autumnal equinox, and I still wouldn't be able to harvest the fucks to give. — Santino Hassell

Harvest moon: around the pond I wander and the night is gone. — Matsuo Basho

A full harvest moon lit the sky. In its glow, there appeared an old woman dressed in black lace. A shimmering veil covered her head. With her back to the old oak tree, she keened wildly. Her cry was carried by the autumn winds and lost on the wings of the nightingales. — AnneMarie Dapp

Molly watched the pale water, changing, always changing, and always the same, and she could feel him near, not touching, not speaking. Thin clouds chased across the face of the swelling moon. Soon it would be full, the harvest moon, the end of Indian summer. The moon was so cleanly outlined, so unambiguous, she thought. A misshapen bowl, like an artifact made by inexpert hands that would improve with practice. — Kate Wilhelm

There's Carol like a rolling car, And Martin like a flying bird, And Adam like the Lord's First Word, And Raymond like the Harvest Moon, And Peter like a piper's tune, And Alan like the flowing on Of water. And there's John, like John. — Eleanor Farjeon

It was the end of August - the time when owls hoot at night and flurries of bats swoop noiselessly over the garden. Moomin Wood was full of glow-worms, and the sea was disturbed. There was expectation and a certain sadness in the air, and the harvest moon came up huge and yellow. Moomintroll had always liked those last weeks of summer most, but he didn't really know why. — Tove Jansson

Every fifteen minutes or so the harvest moon would bleed through the tourniquet of cloud cover that conspired to squeeze every droplet of pictorial sentiment out of the Skagit landscape in order that a more refined Chinese moon might brush the countryside. In the aloof washes of moonlight no form seemed to stir. — Tom Robbins