I MOONBEAM, leave the shadowy vale, To bathe this burning brow. Moonbeam, why art thou so pale, As thou walkest o'er the dewy dale, Where humble wild flowers grow? Is it to mimic me? But that can never be; For thine orb is bright, And the clouds are light, That at intervals shadow the star-studded night. II Now all is deathy still on earth; Nature's tired frame reposes; And, ere the golden morning's birth Its radiant hues discloses, Flies forth its balmy breath. But mine is the midnight of Death, And Nature's morn To my bosom forlorn Brings but a gloomier night, implants a deadlier thorn. III Wretch! Suppress the glare of madness Struggling in thine haggard eye, For the keenest throb of sadness, Pale Despair's most sickening sigh, Is but to mimic me; And this must ever be, When the twilight of care, And the night of despair, Seem in my breast but joys to the pangs that rankle there. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPITAPH ON THE MONUMENT OF SIR WILLIAM DYER by KATHERINE DYER UNDER HOUSE ARREST IN WINDSOR by HENRY HOWARD THE SOLITARY WOODSMAN by CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS THE SAILOR BOY by ALFRED TENNYSON OPEN THY HEART by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS CALAIS SANDS by MATTHEW ARNOLD |