Art thou pale for weariness a poem 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?

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And like a dying lady a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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

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