La Fuite de la Lune
(1881)
TO outer senses there is peace,
A dreamy peace on either hand,
Deep silence in the shadowy land,
Deep silence where the shadows cease.
Save for a cry that echoes shrill 5
From some lone bird disconsolate;
A corncrake calling to its mate;
The answer from the misty hill.
And suddenly the moon withdraws
Her sickle from the lightening skies, 10
And to her sombre cavern flies,
Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.
Oscar Wilde
(1854–1900)
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