Each star is a flower,
So close!
Just waiting to bloom,
So soon!
Upon the inner dome

You were once my only light,
So strong against the night
But the sun's ascent now done,
My love for you has gone

So cold against the sight,
My heart, the mind despite,
Must wither neath the scene

There is, at least, one soul
In every stream, and each gust
Of stirring wind, a thought.

Such is the doctrine of mystics,
Bored men of science,
And of dreaming children too.

But what is this worth?
We have no oracle
We have no ear for ghosts