Thou who sitt'st listening to the midnight wind, <br />Pale maiden moon! 'tis said, that they who gaze <br />Too long upon thy melancholy light <br />Are struck with madness, and that o'er their mind <br />Thou shedd'st a mildew down, a withering blight. <br />If this were so, to some thy barren rays <br />Would be more welcome than the fruitful sun <br />To those who number none but happy days. <br />If to be mad were to forget one's grief, <br />Thy dewy finger-tips touching my brow <br />Might to my misery bring such relief <br />As misery such as mine can never know, <br />Till my distracted thoughts shall cease to run <br />From what once was—to all that must be now.<br /><br />Frances Anne Kemble<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-89/
