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No rest--no dark. Hour after hour that passionless bright face Climbs up the desolate blue. - Dinah Maria Mulock (used pseudonym Mrs. Craik), Moon-Struck Hail, pallid crescent, hail! Let me look on thee where thou sitt'st for aye Like memory--ghastly in the glare of day, But in the evening, light. - Dinah Maria Mulock (used pseudonym Mrs. Craik), The Moon in the Morning The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. - Alfred Noyes The queen of night shines fair with all her virgin stars about her. - Thomas Otway Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi' the auld moon in hir arme. - Thomas Percy, Reliques--Sir Patrick Spens Still and pale Thou movest in thy silver veil, Queen of the night! the filmy shroud Of many a mild, transparent cloud Hides, yet adorns thee. - Winthrop Mackworth Praed Day glimmer'd in the east, and the white Moon Hung like a vapor in the cloudless sky. - Samuel Rogers, Italy--The Lake of Geneva Again thou reignest in thy golden hall, Rejoicing in thy sway, fair queen of night! The ruddy reapers hail thee with delight: Theirs is the harvest, theirs the joyous call For tasks well ended ere the season's fall. - William Roscoe, Sonnet--To the Harvest Moon The sun was gone now; the curled moon was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf. - Christina Georgina Rossetti, The Blessed Damozel (st. 10) The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to. - Carl Sandburg That I could clamber to the frozen moon And draw the ladder after me. - quoted by Arthur Schopenhauer, Parerga and Paralipomena Good even, good fair moon, good even to thee; I prithee, dear moon, now show to me The form and the features, the speech and degree, Of the man that true lover of mine shall be. - Sir Walter Scott, The Heart of Midlothian (ch. XVII) If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. - Sir Walter Scott, The Lay of the Last Minstrel (canto II, st. 1) The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven. - William Shakespeare The moon, the governess of floods, pale in her anger, washes all the air that rheumatic diseases do abound; and, through this distemperature, we see the seasons alter. - William Shakespeare Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour Draws on apace. Four happy days bring in Another moon; but O, methinks, how slow This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires, Like to a stepdame or a dowager, Long withering our a young man's revenue. - William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream (Theseus at I, i) Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound. And thorough this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. - William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream (Titania at II, i) The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That's curded by the frost from purest snow And hangs on Dian's temple--dear Valeria! - William Shakespeare, Coriolanus (Coriolanus at V, iii) It is the very error of the moon. She comes more nearer earth than she was wont And makes men mad. - William Shakespeare, Othello the Moor of Venice (Othello at V, ii) Nine changes of the wat'ry star hath been The shepherd's note since we have left our throne Without a burthen. - William Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale (Polixenes at I, ii) Like the young moon, When on the sunlit limits of the night Her white shell trembles amid crimson air, And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers might, Doth, as the herald of its coming, bear The ghost of its dead mother, whose dim form Bends in dark ether from her infant's chair. - Percy Bysshe Shelley The cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Heaven's bright isles, Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles! That wandering shrine of soft, yet icy flame, Which ever is transform'd yet still the same, And warms, but not illumines. - Percy Bysshe Shelley The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire. - Percy Bysshe Shelley, Hellas--Semi-Chorus II That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon. - Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cloud (IV) 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 joyous eye That finds no object worth its constancy? - Percy Bysshe Shelley, To the Moon Displaying page 3 of 4 for this topic: << Prev Next >> 1 2 [3] 4
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