The stars in their magnificent arrayLook down upon the Earth, their cynosure,Or so it seems. They are too far away,In fact, to see a thing; hence they look pureTo us. They lack the textures of our globe,So only we, from cameras carried high,Enjoy the beauty of the swirling robeThat wraps us up, the interplay of skyAnd cloud, as if a Wedgwood plate of blueAnd white should melt, and then, its surface stirredWith spoons, a treasure too good to be true,Be placed, and hover like a hummingbird,Drawing all eyes, though ours alone, to feastOn splendor as it turns west from the East.
There was a time when some of our young menWalked plumply on the moon and saw Earth rise,As stunning as the sun. The years since thenHave aged them. Now and…
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The New Yorker (Digital) - 1 Issue, Mar-16-15