Stillness enfolds the gentle stars above,
they watch cold unrelenting gaze on mortal affairs.
Uncaring if they should find us in hate or love,
unblinking at our winks and stares.
In august they are hazed and dim,
clasped by storms on winds and whim.
In winter they are piercing bright,
and burn in bitter frigid night.
In tropics they swirl through heavy air,
in temperates they whirl on forests fair,
in arctic regions they neither rise nor set,
beneath them the legions in heat beget.
And yet there is no star divine,
that is like the one that made you mine.