Percy Bysshe Shelley (17921822)
And, like a dy-ing la-dy lean and pale,
Who tot-ters forth, wrapp'd in a gauz-y veil,
Out of her cham-ber, led by the in-sane
And feeb-le wan-der-ings of her fad-ing brain,
The moon a-rose up in the mur-ky east
A white and shape-less mass.
Are you pale for wear-i-ness
Of clim-bing heaven and gaz-ing on the earth,
A-mong the stars that have a differ-ent birth,
And e-ver chang-ing, like a joy-less eye
That finds no ob-ject worth its con-stan-cy?