Wilde, Oscar: La Fuite de la Lune

  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.