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.