Two short poems by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822

TO THE MOON.

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?

-o0o-

THE WANING MOON

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.

-o=0=o-