THE MOON

by: Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

      I.
       
      ND, like a dying lady lean and pale,
      Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
      Out of her chamber, led by the insane
      And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
      The moon arose up in the murky east
      A white and shapeless mass.
       
      II.
       
      Art thou pale for weariness
      Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
      Wandering companionless
      Among the stars that have a different birth,
      And ever changing, like a joyless eye
      That finds no object worth its constancy?

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