  ’Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin, These long ‘small hours’ of night, When grass is crisp, and the air is thin, And the stars come close and bright. The moon hangs caught in a silvery veil, From clouds of a steely grey, And the hard, cold blue of the sky grows pale In the wonderful Milky Way. There is something wrong with this star of ours, A mortal plank unsound, That cannot be charged to the mighty powers Who guide the stars around. Though man is higher than bird or beast, Though wisdom is still his boast, He surely resembles Nature least, And the things that vex her most. Oh, say, some muse of a larger star, Some muse of the Universe, If they who people those planets far Are better than we, or worse? Are they exempted from deaths and births, And have they greater powers, And greater heavens, and greater earths, And greater Gods than ours? Are our lies theirs, and our truth their truth, Are they cursed for pleasure’s sake, Do they make their hells in their reckless youth Ere they know what hells they make? And do they toil through each weary hour Till the tedious day is o’er, For food that gives but the fleeting power To toil and strive for more? |
|
