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