Alas, with Empty Hands

 Sonnet to the Harvest Moon
by William Stanley Roscoe 

Again thou reignest in thy golden hall,
 Rejoicing in thy sway, fair queen of night!
 The ruddy reapers hail thee with delight,
 Theirs is the harvest, theirs the joyous call
 For tasks well ended ere the season's fall.
 Sweet orb, thou smilest from thy starry height,
 But whilst on them thy beams are shedding bright,
 To me thou com'st o'ershadow'd with a pall:
 To me alone the year hath fruitless flown,
 Earth hath fulfill'd her trust thro' all her lands,
 The good man gathereth now where he had sown,
 And the great master in his vineyard stands;
 But I, as if my task were all unknown,
 Come to his gates, alas, with empty hands.