The very skies
Were mutable; for all-amazed he stood
To see that truly not in any wise
He could behold them as of old, nor could
His eyes receive the whole whereof he wot,
But when he told them over, one WAS NOT.
While yet he gazed and pondered reverently,
The fickle folk began to move away.
"It is but one star less for us to see;
And what does one star signify?" quoth they:
"The heavens are full of them." "But, ah!" said he,
"That star was bright while yet she lasted." "Ay!"
They answered: "Praise her, Poet, an' ye will:
Some are now shining that are brighter still."
"Poor star! to be disparaged so soon
On her withdrawal," thus the Poet sighed;
"That men should miss, and straight deny her noon
Its brightness!" But the people in their pride
Said, "How are we beholden? 'twas no boon
She gave. Her nature 'twas to shine so wide:
She could not choose but shine, nor could we know
Such star had ever dwelt in heaven but so."
The Poet answered sadly, "That is true!"
And then he thought upon unthankfulness;
While some went homeward; and the residue,
Reflecting that the stars are numberless,
Mourned that man's daylight hours should be so few,
So short the shining that his path may bless:
To nearer themes then tuned their willing lips,
And thought no more upon the star's eclipse.
But he, the Poet, could not rest content
Till he had found that old Astronomer;
Therefore at midnight to his house he went
And prayed him be his tale's interpreter.
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