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Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Moon

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?

 
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About the poet
Percy Bysshe Shelley
 
By the same poet
Ozymandias
Music, when Soft Voices die
Hymn of Pan
The Invitation
Hellas
To a Skylark
Ode to the West Wind
The Indian Serenade
Night
From the Arabic: An Imitation
Lines
To ——
The Question
Remorse
 
Related books
Percy Bysshe Shelley at amazon.com


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