I've heard all astronomers are queer, And that there burns a madness in their eyes, Half yearning, half a strange and dreadful fear, As they lean to see the spectral planets rise. For all they've measured distances and know That the moon's no houri, pale and witching fair, I'm told they sweep the star-fields, row on row, As if to find a mystery loitering there. Some star that gleams from heaven's balcony Tonight, luminous and festive as in prime, Is mortal cold, they'll say, though you still see The amber record of its tilt with time, And swift a shadow falls across their faces, They shudder . . . and you know some flagrant doubt, Unvanquished by the logic of the races, Haunts them still, with many a pagan flout. |