The Moon by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Moon by Percy Bysshe Shelley
 
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?