Poem by Charlotte Turner Smith

Sonnet 4. 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. 

1. Sonnet 67. On Passing over a Dreary Tract
2. Sonnet 42. Composed During a Walk
3. Verses, on the Death of the Same Lady
4. Sonnet 32. To Melancholy. Written on the Banks of the Arun, October, 1785
5. Ode to the Poppy

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