By Rudyard Kipling

Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised,
With idiot moons and stars retracting stars?
Creep thou between — thy coming’s all unnoised.
Heaven hath her high, as Earth her baser, wars.
Heir to these tumults, this affright, that fray
(By Adam’s, fathers’, own, sin bound alway);
Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say
Which planet mends thy threadbare fate, or mars.

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