Betelgeuse
On Betelgeuse the gold leaves hang in golden aisles
For twice a hundred million miles,
And twice a hundred million years
They golden hang and nothing stirs,
On Betelgeuse.
Space is a wind that does not blow
On Betelgeuse and time is a bird,
Whose wings have never stirred
The golden avenues of leaves
On Betelgeuse.
On Betelgeuse there is nothing that joys or grieves
The unstirred multitude of leaves,
Nor ghost of evil or good
Haunts the gold multitude
On Betelgeuse.
And birth they do not use
Nor death on Betelgeuse,
And the God, of whom we are infinite dust,
Is there a single leaf of those gold leaves
On Betelgeuse.
Humbert Wolfe