Where through the dusky upland grass
The young brown-throated reapers pass,
Like silhouettes against the sky.



Poem: 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.



Poem: The Grave Of Keats