Impressions

II.  La Fruite 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,
    And to her sombre cavern flies,
Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.