"Seule au-dessus des mers, la lune voyageant,
Laisse dans les flots noirs tomber ses pleurs d'argent."[3]
If we awake, to find our bed lighted up by a long beam coming in at the window, do we not feel at once as though the white figure evoked by Catulle Mendè's were descending upon us:
"Elle venait, avec un lis dans chaque main,
La pente d'un rayon lui servant de chemin."[4]
If, in some evening walk in the country, we suddenly hear the long sinister howl of a farm dog, are we not forcibly struck by the recollection of the admirable poem of Leconte de Lisle, les Hurleurs?
"Seule, la lune pâle, en écartant la nue,
Comme une morne lampe, oscillait tristement.
Monde muet, marqué d'un signe de colère,
Débris d'un globe mort au hasard dispersé,
Elle laissait tomber de son orbe glacé
Un reflet sépulcral sur l'océan polaire."[5]
At the evening trysting place, one saunters slowly through the leafy path, with arm encircling the beloved one, pressing her hand, and kissing her brow. She is perhaps a little tired, a little moved, and walks with lagging step.
With a lily in each hand she came,
The slanting beam her pathway.
A bench appears in sight, under the leaves bathed by the soft light, as by a calm shower.