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?