Forty-two years ago (to me if to no one else The number is of some interest) it was a brilliant starry night And the westward train was empty and had no corridors So darting from side to side I could catch the unwonted sight Of those almost intolerably bright Holes, punched in the sky, which excited me partly because Of their Latin names and partly because I had read in the textbooks How very far off they were, it seemed their light Had left them (some at least) long years before I was. And this remembering now I mark that what Light was leaving some of them at least then, Forty-two years ago, will never arrive In time for me to catch it, which light when It does get here may find that there is not Anyone left alive To run from side to side in a late night train Admiring it and adding noughts in vain.