我们与遥远的球体有什么联系呢?孤独的人请求，他们像盾牌一样发出光芒:在白昼的尽头，看见的，未显露的。它们不可抗拒地照耀着我们，我们渴望得到生命的答案，我们努力用一个标志来滋养生命。想象也不能把穿透力抛出去;我们只是经过思想的呼吸，谁能猜测它们是否会像地球一样生长;要有求知的欲望;如果生命从草中长出谷粒，从辛劳和痛苦中开出花朵;有激情打吧，从裂脑中赢得空间;这神秘的联系达到了，星与星相连。那些看得见的神仙对梦的诱惑:对人类饥饿的愤怒，毫无疑问在看。对我们的感官来说，它们永远是处女，它们离我们越来越远，注视得越来越紧，它们无情地把跳动的心击在视线的后面，直到我们想象到它们的天空变成了白茫茫的，它们升起的光只是在闪烁，而地球，我们的热血温暖的地球，成了那冰冷的无脑射线的颤抖的猎物。然而，在我们沉思的时候，却给了我们空间，让我们的思想在我们的界限之外呼吸;更多的是，当爱被带入沉思时，有人问爱的原因。 'Tis Earth's, her gift; else have we nought: Her gift, her secret, here our tie. And not with her and yonder sky? Bethink you: were it Earth alone Breeds love, would not her region be The sole delight and throne Of generous Deity? To deeper than this ball of sight Appeal the lustrous people of the night. Fronting yon shoreless, sown with fiery sails, It is our ravenous that quails, Flesh by its craven thirsts and fears distraught. The spirit leaps alight, Doubts not in them is he, The binder of his sheaves, the sane, the right: Of magnitude to magnitude is wrought, To feel it large of the great life they hold: In them to come, or vaster intervolved, The issues known in us, our unsolved solved: That there with toil Life climbs the self-same Tree, Whose roots enrichment have from ripeness dropped. So may we read and little find them cold: Let it but be the lord of Mind to guide Our eyes; no branch of Reason's growing lopped; Nor dreaming on a dream; but fortified By day to penetrate black midnight; see, Hear, feel, outside the senses; even that we, The specks of dust upon a mound of mould, We who reflect those rays, though low our place, To them are lastingly allied. So may we read, and little find them cold: Not frosty lamps illumining dead space, Not distant aliens, not senseless Powers. The fire is in them whereof we are born; The music of their motion may be ours. Spirit shall deem them beckoning Earth and voiced Sisterly to her, in her beams rejoiced. Of love, the grand impulsion, we behold The love that lends her grace Among the starry fold. Then at new flood of customary morn, Look at her through her showers, Her mists, her streaming gold, A wonder edges the familiar face: She wears no more that robe of printed hours; Half strange seems Earth, and sweeter than her flowers.