Not from night's stars do I bright silver pluck,
Yet comet-quick, I have astronomy.
But not to tell of troutlings' evil luck,
Of nets, of bears, or men's gastronomy,
Nor can I cricket fortune truly tell;
Pawing at each six-legged perturbation,
Or say with catnip if it shall go well;
A bliss of thousand-petaled transmutation.
But from thine eyes the constant stars derive,
And in them I read lavish birds and flowers
As truth and beauty leaping upstream strive,
Thy pearly claw the hook of Heaven's powers.
Bemused by thee, this I prognosticate:
A fish-fatale doth feed our dinner date.
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