Westering ever, fall the wheeling stars,
One by one, on their silent way to rest,
Across the ocean on whose lip I stand,
Its tilting deeps mirrored in my breast.
For morning, and bright Aurora comes,
To brush with light, and to push aside
The painted sea, on which my bellied sails
Once, down your steady Trade Winds plied.
Then, in the arms of Perseus reclining,
You were my Sun, my centre, my nearest star;
But now, out past the farthest point of light,
Beyond the reach of astronomy, a galaxy too far.
And Eastward, rising, is where I must awaken,
Await the day, for by the night I'm forsaken.
