Shelley speaks directly to the moon, painting it as a brilliant flirt, a "fair coquette" forever wandering the sky. It alone can constantly shift its face yet remain universally loved. With tender irony, he tells this celestial beauty not to envy our "dim world," because Earth only ever managed to produce one thing as lovely—and the thought breaks off mid-line. There's a wistful affection in his voice, as if he's shielding the moon from disappointment. The poem's mood hovers between awe and gentle melancholy, the speaker clearly enchanted by the moon's eternal renewal even as he hints that our own brightest moments are painfully rare. That unfinished ending feels like a sigh, leaving us to imagine what—or who—that one fair thing might have been, and why the comparison is too heartbreaking to complete.
Fragment: To the Moon — Summary
Bright wanderer, fair coquette of Heaven, To whom alone it has been given To change and be adored for ever, Envy not this dim world, for never But once within its shadow grew One fair as--