Okay, my starsick beauty! - blue jeans and tilting breasts, child of Canaverel - where would you like to go? Shall we set course for Mars, or Venus; green sea, Aldebaran the golden, or Tycho Brahe's Nova, the moons of Sagitta, or Vega's colonies? School-minching, bronze Diane, bane of the launching-pads- may not ask again: wherever you would go my rocket-head can turn at will to your command- top luck the flowers of snow that growon Pluto, or capella-wards, to pluck roots of asphodel? I may not ask again: where would you like to go? Have you a star; she says, O any faithful sun Where love does not eclipse? The countdown slurs and slips). -Ah child, if that star shines, is in chartless skies, I do not know of such! But come, where will you go? |