Coming down, in mid-evening,
       Like a star anxious to fade
       Before some night watcher can see it
       (Even a dying star has some pride
       And could wish privacy
       From that true oldest profession ---
       The dozens of star gazers
       Who would pick the secrets of heaven
           As some pick pockets
       And offer their findings
       To kings and tradesmen
       For such rewards as kings and tradesmen give).
Easing from the sublime ignorance
       (Well marked on the proud face
       A drunk would dare not show)
       To a simple contentment
       (As recognized only in the well-fed cat,
       Canary feathers sticking to his mouth)
       And finally to a sort of bliss unknown
       (For one who experienced it
       Would be too ashamed to note it).
But even I, visible as a star
    (A small unnoticed occupant of the Milky Way),
    Have my moment of pride
    And find myself at loss
    For a better hiding place
    Than the questionable twilight of mid-evening
         For coming down.
 

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