And like a Dying Lady, Lean and Pale

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,
   Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
   Out of her chamber, led by the insane
   And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
   The moon arose up in the murky East,
   A white and shapeless mass—

Art thou pale for weariness
     Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
     Wandering companionless
     Among the stars that have a different birth,
     And ever changing, like a joyless eye
     That finds no object worth its constancy?