Receding to the other side
While robins and mosquitoes glide
In and out a shadow-net.
Signs of melancholy press
From crickets, frogs, and lily blooms,
And intermittent valley glooms
The wings of one dark bat caress.
Vega sparkles on her throne,
The timeless Lyre, in the east
(as judged from cosmic speck, at least).
She does not threaten, nor condone
A petty planet dweller's deeds
Abroad the galaxy. What care
To her long life beyond the air
Are living lungs or human needs?
Yet she is near, and you are far,
If measured on the scale of hope:
When aching eyes through darkness grope,
At least they see the distant star.
|J.W. Waterhouse. Lady Clare.|