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La Fuite de la Lune

by Oscar Wilde, 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
     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,
     And to her sombre cavern flies,
 Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.

Published in Poems

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