THE MOON  -  PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
             



                             And, 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.



                                         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?

                      WHAT DANGER IS THE PILGRIM IN   -   JOHN BUNYAN


                          What danger is the pilgrim in,
                    How many are his Foes,
                    How many ways are there to sin,
                    No living mortal knows.
                     

                            Some of the Ditch shy are,yet can
                      Lie tumbling in the Mire;
                      Some, though they shun the Frying-pan,
                      Do leap into the Fire.