August Poetry

The Waning Moon 

And like a dying lady, lean and pale, 
Who totters forth, wrapped 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? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1820