A harvest moon in winter
Strikes the heart a troubling sight,
A full-round disc suspended low
And orange in a blackened night.
The southern seasons lack reason, sense;
The southern world’s unhinged.

There are no autumns here
On this barren plain of grass,
No feast of plenty, apple fair,
No pleasant loss of summer bliss,
No springtime maidens brought to bear,
No cold to warm the heart against—

Only endless heat,
And stagnant, humid air.
But for those that tell me
That Christmas draweth near
And the harvest’s all but done,
I’d never know, nor never care.

The world hears not my pleas
For a respite from the dawn
And the unremitting Sun;
And when my heart doth long,
Too long, no waning-season comes
To kindle forth my song.

Year-round winter’d find me better
Suited to its charms;
If I must remain deprived
Of autumn’s melancholy balms,
At least I’d know immortal death
And sigh a futile psalm.