Sonnet. "Thou who sitt'st listening to the midnight wind"

Thou who sitt'st listening to the midnight wind,
  Pale maiden moon! 'tis said, that they who gaze
  Too long upon thy melancholy light
  Are struck with madness, and that o'er their mind
  Thou shedd'st a mildew down, a withering blight.
  If this were so, to some thy barren rays
  Would be more welcome than the fruitful sun
  To those who number none but happy days.
  If to be mad were to forget one's grief,
  Thy dewy finger-tips touching my brow
  Might to my misery bring such relief
  As misery such as mine can never know,
  Till my distracted thoughts shall cease to run
  From what once was—to all that must be now.