Moonrise The moon shines bright; My love’s snow-white. She looks so cute. Can I be mute? The bright moon gleams; My lover beams. Can I care For her face fair? The bright moon turns, With love she burns. Can I not pine For her hands fine?
Art thou pale for weariness
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
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?