 | The Triangular Society |  |
139
TO THE MOON.
Dear pallid vestal, that upbears
A cresset tipped with silver fire,
At thy behest, earth's fretful cares
Abashed by utter peace, retire.
A cresset tipped with silver fire,
At thy behest, earth's fretful cares
Abashed by utter peace, retire.
140
Where'er the wretched fall asleep,
Wearied at last by life's despair,
'T is sweet that thy pure face will keep
Its ever-faithful vigil there!
Wearied at last by life's despair,
'T is sweet that thy pure face will keep
Its ever-faithful vigil there!
| The Triangular Society | |