The Islands

The stars, in dissolution burning, Burn out, as we do, late or soon, Islands of fire, the fixed, the turning, Whose morning and whose afternoon Are half a trillion years, a span As brief, or long, as his for man.

My son, when dark comes down, comes down To the south lawn to study these: Knowing from books the proper noun For what, to me, are mysteries, He finds the one he looks for, there, Above the apple-tree, Altair.

Altair in August. April gone Four months — or is it only hours? — Since, resting on the same south lawn, I lay and looked at yellow flowers Moving a little when the wind Came round the corner; and the mind

Stirred, also, idly, wondering How long the flower had been in bloom, How many days were left, this spring, Before its withering and doom; How long before it had to die It could not tell. No more could I.

One, two, three, four; infinities, Or moments? daffodil or man? It would be best to look at these O most intensely, while you can, My trouble said, my wisdom knew, Who knows? another year or two . . .

But no such worry seems to scare And no self-conscious panic stir My summer student of Altair, Sixteen-year-old astronomer, Taking it easy; it appears The stars, and he, have years and years.

One, two, three, four; four, three, two, one, Less than immortal, burning out, Father and flower, star and son, And only one assailed by doubt, Daffodil, boy, and man, and star, Most separate, most insular.