TO THE MOON.O lovely moon, how well do I recallThe time,—’tis just a year—when up this hillI came, in my distress, to gaze at thee:And thou suspended wast o’er yonder grove,As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill.But stained with mist, and tremulous, appearedThy countenance to me, because my eyesWere filled with tears, that could not be suppressed;For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome,Andisso still, unchanged, belovèd moon!And yet this recollection pleases me,This computation of my sorrow’s age.How pleasant is it, in the days of youth,When hope a long career before it hath,And memories are few, upon the pastTo dwell, though sad, and though the sadness last!
O lovely moon, how well do I recallThe time,—’tis just a year—when up this hillI came, in my distress, to gaze at thee:And thou suspended wast o’er yonder grove,As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill.But stained with mist, and tremulous, appearedThy countenance to me, because my eyesWere filled with tears, that could not be suppressed;For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome,Andisso still, unchanged, belovèd moon!And yet this recollection pleases me,This computation of my sorrow’s age.How pleasant is it, in the days of youth,When hope a long career before it hath,And memories are few, upon the pastTo dwell, though sad, and though the sadness last!