The constellations keep their time
Like some mad poet lost in rhyme,
Whose thoughts from star to star do fly,
Bright visions which can never die.
While heaven draws its fabric down
Diana in her pallid gown
Appears like some enchanted host
Ascending quiet as a ghost,
To climb the celestial wave
With passage tacit as the grave,
How still her silent course pursues
Along those shining avenues.
He saw the light within that lies,
He knew its face, and heard its cries,
What solitary orb will then
Illuminate and guide his pen,
With eyes that to another age
Shall look and ponder on each page
To swirl around inside his head
The words of poets long since dead,
Whose voices echo and remain
Between the workings of his brain,
Where thoughts like foliage twist and turn
And with imagination burn.