 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
To the Moon.—Massachusetts Spy.
Queen of the silver bow! by thy pale beam,
Alone, and pensive, I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow, trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way;
And, while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think, fair planet of the night,
That in thy orb the wretched may have rest.
Alone, and pensive, I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow, trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way;
And, while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think, fair planet of the night,
That in thy orb the wretched may have rest.
The sufferers of the earth, perhaps, may go,
Released by death, to thy benignant sphere,
And the sad children of despair and wo
Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
O, that I soon may reach that world serene,
Poor weary pilgrim in this toiling scene!
Released by death, to thy benignant sphere,
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Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
O, that I soon may reach that world serene,
Poor weary pilgrim in this toiling scene!
| The American common-place book of poetry | |