And like a dying lady, lean and pale, Who totters forth, wrapped 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--
Shelley pictures the waning moon as a sickly, spectral woman. She’s lean and pale, barely able to stand, shuffling out of her bedroom wrapped in a thin, misty veil. Her mind is going — confused, aimless wanderings lead her forward — and the whole image feels fragile, almost feverish.
Läs hela sammanfattningen