Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain.
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves;
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.