There is no climate for stars. But upon earth, Where cloud-winds of evil blow unpeaceably, Imagination, the primal aviator, Voyages ever unstably. Waking at night And fueled by the quick memories of day, It takes off with troubled foreboding to round Our yet uncharted sphere -- over huge longitudes That rib seas and continents, through great mountain-gates That lead by river trails to turbid plain-cities, Then on, down, and under, until returning It reaches the bitter hangar of the breast. Everywhere under the flight the loud surge Of living and dying comes up, and, pitiably, The procreative pageant of humanity Writhing toward no certain goal but death. What shall be done that a million years have not done To ease the valiant anguish it wings over; To heal men of the hurt of being men On a necessitous planet? Can the stars answer? |