By night we looked across my field,

The tasseled corn was fine to see,

The moon was yellow on the rows

And seemed so wonderful to me,

That with an old provincial pride

I praised my moonlit Tennessee,

And thought my poor befriended man

Would never dare to disagree.

He was a frosty Russian man

And wore a bushy Russian beard;

He had two furtive faded eyes

That some did horror once had seared;

I wondered if they ever would

Forget the horrors they had feared;

Yet when I praised my pleasant field

This stupid fellow almost jeered.

“Your moon shines very well, my friend,

Your fields are good enough, I know;

At home our fields in the winter-time

Were always white, and shining so!

Our nights went beautiful like day,

And bitter cold our winds would blow;

And I remember how it looked,

Dear God, my country of the snow!”