AND, like a dying lady lean and pale,Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,Out of her chamber, led by the insaneAnd feeble wanderings of her fading brain,The mood arose up in the murky east,A white and shapeless mass.
Art thou pale for wearinessOf climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionlessAmong the stars that have a different birth,And ever changing, like a joyless eyeThat finds no object worth its constancy?
- To the Moon, Percy Bysshe Shelly (1920)
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