And like a Dying Lady, Lean and Pale
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?
