Wordsmiths: fragment. To the Moon.

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?

- Percy Bysshe Shelley

His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon...He repeated to himself the lines of Shelley's fragment. Its alternation of sad human ineffectualness with vast inhuman cycles of activity chilled him, and he forgot his own human and ineffectual grieving.
- A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce.

N.B: Thought I'll post something a little more melancholic this time around.