flower of the moon!
Still white is her brow whom we worshiped on earth long ago;
Yea, purer than pearls in deep seas, and more virgin than snow.
The dull years veil their eyes from her shining, and vanish afraid,
Nor profane her with age—the immortal, nor dim...

From “Childe Harold,” Canto II.
  ’T IS night, when Meditation bids us feel
  We once have loved, though love is at an end:
  The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
  Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.
  Who with the weight of years...

Poet: Lord Byron