Stars wheel in purple, yours is not so rare as Hesperus, nor yet so great a star as bright Aldeboran or Sirius, nor yet the stained and brilliant one of War; stars turn in purple, glorious to the sight; yours is not gracious as the Pleiads are nor as Orion's sapphires, luminous; yet disenchanted, cold, imperious face, when all the others blighted, reel and fall, your star, steel-set, keeps lone and frigid tryst to freighted ships, baffled in wind and blast.
H. D. - 1886-1961
Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear-head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song, On the bank we share our arrows— The loosed string tells our note: O flight, Bring her swiftly to our song. She is great, We measure her by the pine-trees.