The Moon
1792-1822
I
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 mood 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?
DayPoems Poem No. 561
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/561.html">The Moon by Percy Bysshe Shelley</a>
The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor
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