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.