To me at night the stars are vocal.
They say: ‘Your planet’s oh so local!
A speck of dust in heaven’s ceiling;
Your faith divine a foolish feeling.
What odds if you are chaos hurled,
Yours is a silly little world.’
For their derision, haply true,
I hate the stars, as wouldn’t you?
But whether earth be great or little,
I do not care a fishwife’s spittle;
I do not fret its where or why,–
Today’s a day and I am I.
Serene, afar from woe and worry
I tend my vines and do not hurry.
I buss the lass and tip the bottle,
Fill up the glass and rinse my throttle.
Tomorrow though the earth should perish,
The lust of life today I cherish.
Ah no, the stars I will not curse:
Though things are bad they might be worse.
So when vast constellations shine
I drink to them in ruby wine;
For they themselves,–although it odd is,
Somehow give me a sense that God is.
Because we trust and realise
His love he steers us in the skies.
For faith however foolish can
Be mighty helpful to a man:
And as I tend my vines so He
With tenderness looks after me.
