Sonnet IV To The Moon

QUEEN of the silver bow!--by thy pale beam,

Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,

And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,

Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.

And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light

Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;

And oft I think--fair planet of the night,

That in thy orb, the wretched may have rest:

The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,

Released by death--to thy benignant sphere,

And the sad children of despair and woe

Forget in thee, their cup of sorrow here.

Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene,

Poor wearied pilgrim--in this toiling scene!