The Moon Paul Hindemith

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?