Come, reckon up the eons as you may, And measure out the lag of tide and time, And circumscribe the pace for night and day Within the weave of solar pantomime; Then with a casual shrug dismiss the brief And latest masquerade which started when Blood cells danced red to joy or paled to grief In little ticks called three score years and ten.

But chart for me that instant when a pledge Of love was mutualized upon the lips Within a core of flame beyond whose edge All your known planets suffered full eclipse— When the hoarse clarions of an atavist Called home your Betelgeuze to formless mist.