Passeth the moon with her sickle of light,
Slowly, slowly fadeth she,
Weary of reaping the barren night
And the desolate shuddering sea.
— Yeats, The Island of Statues
My name is Nils and I do games, stories and stuff.
Passeth the moon with her sickle of light,
Slowly, slowly fadeth she,
Weary of reaping the barren night
And the desolate shuddering sea.
