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by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)


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.


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?

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare


Pure verbal painting of a moon rising on a foggy evening...

...or is it so much more?

June 30, 2009 at 7:04 AM  

Hello Sweets stopping over from Sits to check you out.
your future looks very bright my love.
Happy days and hugs to you

June 30, 2009 at 8:57 AM  

Nice...I like this one a lot...

July 17, 2009 at 4:48 AM  

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