Impressions Ii. La Fuite De La Lune

Oscar Wilde

                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
                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.

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